What Might Have Been
by Christine Morgan
Summary: One gargoyle's decision makes all the difference in the world. #50 in an ongoing saga.


What Might Have Been   
by Christine Morgan 

christine@sabledrake.com / http://www.christine-morgan.org   


  
  


* * *

  
Author's Note: the characters of Gargoyles are the property of Disney and  
are used here without their creators' knowledge or consent. Contains some  
adult situations and violence (probably no more than a PG-13).  
  
Author's Note Additional: This story had been kicking around in my head  
for a long time, mostly because of Jericho and his constant bitter griping  
about his father's choice. But after what Greg had to say at the Gathering  
'98, it all fell into place. 

#50 in an ongoing saga   


* * *

  
"To be or not to be ... that is the question." Hamlet, William Shakespeare   
"For every decision that's made, the alternate decision is played out in  
another reality." -- Red Dwarf Season IV, Episode 5, 'Dimension Jump'   


* * *

  
**_PART ONE -- GOLIATH_**   
  
**994 A.D.  
  
** "Och, Magus, what have ye done?" Princess Katherine touched  
one of the statues unbelievingly.  
"Princess ..." the white-haired young man breathed. "I  
thought ..."  
"Bring them back!" Goliath took a large threatening step toward  
him, brandishing a large, threatening fist.  
"I cannot! The page with the counterspell was burnt!" He backed  
up rapidly, distraught, clutching the Grimorum Arcanorum to his narrow  
chest.  
Goliath turned from him to stare in agonized horror at the statues.  
His mentor, three young warriors, and their watchdog, all frozen in stone  
by night! And no way to undo it? He barely heard the Magus telling the  
princess how the spell would last until the castle rose above the clouds -- a  
fanciful way of saying never.  
The castle in question towered above him, smoke still rising from  
smoldering heaps of timbers. Piles of rubble on the ramparts marked the  
places where his thriving clan had once perched. Weapons littered the  
courtyard and battlements. Bows with cut strings, axes with weakened  
handles, swords with blunted blades. How quick, how thorough the  
betraying Captain had been!  
No clan, no mate, not even his revenge. Just the hollow, empty  
victory that had come when he'd snatched the princess back from the brink  
of death while the Captain and Haakon plummeted past and into the rocky,  
unforgiving sea.  
Humans were gathered all around him. Wounded guards,  
weeping women, terrified peasants, wailing children. Of them all, only  
three would meet his tortured gaze. The princess, the Magus, and the boy  
who had come to warn him that his friends needed help. The boy's mother  
glanced up at Goliath for one fearful moment, then tried to pull her son  
behind her skirts.  
"We've done ye a great wrong, Goliath," the princess said,  
putting her hand on his arm.  
Bitterness welled up in him like bile. _Now_ she would extend a  
kind hand? Only a night ago, when he and his angel love had approached  
her in her throne room, having driven off the Vikings in unqualified  
triumph, her tone had been haughty, her words cruel. But put him desolate  
and alone in the ruins of his clan ...  
"The eggs in the rookery will soon hatch ..." Goliath said, more  
thinking aloud than speaking to her.  
The princess laid a hand over her breast. "We will look after  
them as if they were our own."  
He shrugged her off and went to the statues. One by one, refusing  
all help, he carried them with the greatest of care up to the tower and  
placed them in positions of honor.  
Most of the humans went about their own business, dousing  
flames, collecting what supplies they could from the ravaged castle. But  
those three, the Magus and the princess and the boy, lingered near him.  
The boy's mother hovered nervously nearby.  
"I cannot undo this magic," the Magus said softly as Goliath  
emerged onto the top of the tower with the final statue, that of his adored  
mentor and the clan's former leader. "But I can cast my spell one last  
time, and let you join them."  
He set his mentor on the highest parapet, traditionally reserved  
for the leader of the clan. "Rest here, old friend. I'm not worthy of that  
perch any longer." Turning to the Magus, he said, "The oblivion of stone  
sleep is a luxury I cannot afford. I must think first of the eggs, the hope  
and renewal of my clan. They will need me to guide them."  
"Ye canna do it alone!" Katherine protested.  
"I will stay and help you," the boy volunteered.  
"Tom!" his mother gasped. "Ye dinna know what ye're saying!"  
"I do, Mother! The gargoyles were my friends!"  
"Tom, ye're not staying here by yerself!"  
"No, he's not," Katherine said decisively. "I will stay as well."  
"Princess!" The Magus reached, drew back. "It is not safe for  
you here!"  
"I have been unjust to the gargoyles, Magus. The Captain may  
have betrayed us, but his heart was kinder than mine. Had I not given  
them insult, perhaps I would have kept his loyalty. This is my burden to  
bear. I must atone for it."  
"Then I, too, will remain," the Magus said.  
"I dinna expect ye to share my fate, Magus."  
"There is no fate I would rather share, princess." He downcast  
his eyes, missing the look that came into hers. "And it seems I, too, have  
much to atone for."  
"No," Goliath said. "My clan has already failed you once,  
princess. I cannot protect this castle and your people on my own."  
"I've failed ye, too, Goliath. That makes us even. We've relied  
on yer clan and taken ye too much for granted. _Teach_ us. Teach my  
guards, teach lads such as young Tom here. Be my new Captain of the  
Guard. Together, we'll _all_ protect this castle, humans and gargoyles  
alike. And this will na happen again."  
The humans nearest enough to hear murmured in consternation.  
Stay? With the scattered survivors of Haakon's army still about, the castle  
in flames, the croplands torn to pieces? To help a gargoyle? Their fears  
warred visibly with their deep love for the princess, for Malcolm's young  
and capable daughter who had ruled his land so well since his death.  
She had the determination of her mother, the people said of  
Katherine. Not that many remembered the Princess Elena, who had died  
several years ago with the babe that would have been her second child.  
But Elena was a figure of legend, a fearless woman who had  
survived an attack by brigands. Her escort slain, herself injured, she had  
nonetheless eluded her assailants and made her way to the castle. She and  
Malcolm had been married that very night.  
And they had not been the only pair to swear vows of love,  
Goliath recalled. Although he and his angel had not had tokens to  
exchange, they had made their pledges to each other. To be one, now and  
forever.  
Now she was gone. He would never soar with her again, never  
do battle with her by his side, never caress her twilight-blue skin or feel  
the velvety embrace of her wings.  
Why hadn't he listened to her? If he had taken all of the gargoyles  
with him in pursuit of the Vikings, instead of just his mentor ... the castle  
would still have been breached, the humans slain or captured, but his clan  
would be safe and alive.  
He clenched his fists and roared his rage and grief to the sky,  
cursing himself for the arrogance that had made him boast of how he  
could scare off those cowards all by himself.  
"Let us help ye, Goliath," Katherine implored.  
"As you will, princess," he said wearily, the last of his strength  
spent in that one soul-wrenching roar. "But I cannot accept your offer to  
be Captain. My first responsibility is to the children of my clan."  
He glided down to the courtyard, then descended the wide stone  
steps to the subterranean chamber that housed the rookery. There, nestled  
in piles of straw, were the eggs. He counted them -- thirty-six, most of  
mottled pale lavender a shade lighter than his own skin. One was darker,  
the mark of a watchdog. And one was small, pinkish, somehow lonely  
even surrounded by its siblings.  
"You will be great warriors," he promised the eggs. "You will  
grow wise and strong. In time, you will make our clan great again."  
He sat in the darkness, thinking of his rookery brothers and  
sisters. In the terrible events of the past few nights, the loss only struck  
him with a single great bludgeoning hand. Now, in the midst of unborn  
children whose parents would never see them hatch, he thought of each  
individual member of his clan, and those thoughts were like knives  
piercing him.  
His brother, his favorite brother. His brother's comely golden-  
skinned mate. He even found it in himself to grieve for another of their  
brothers who had always been trying to drive a wedge between them. The  
elders, the young warriors whose first real battle had been their last ...  
Just as he could not give in to the welcome silence of the Magus'  
spell, nor could he give in to tears. He had to be strong for the sake of the  
eggs, for the sake of their home.  
A commotion from above drew him from his black mood. A  
youthful voice, the boy, Tom, called for him. "Goliath! Ye must come!  
Quick!"  
He sprang up, dread wrapping cold tendrils around his heart.  
Would this madness never end? The Vikings, it had to be the Vikings,  
coming back for another assault.  
And then a wavering feline screech made the very stones shiver  
in their foundations, sent Goliath's heart slamming wildly against his ribs.  
He took the stairs in two large bounds, bursting into the courtyard and  
scattering startled humans like hens.  
He nearly trampled Tom, who pointed to the tower. "There!"  
Against the dull russet glow of the heavens, against the clouds  
tinged red by the smoke and flames ... a winged shape.  
Goliath could not breathe, hardly dared believe his eyes ...  
"My ... angel?"  
Joy flared through him. He knew that form, knew every inch,  
every curve. She was whole, unharmed!  
She landed atop the tower and seize the princess by the front of  
her gown.  
"All because of _you_!" his angel shrieked, and hurled Katherine  
over the battlement.  
"Princess!" The Magus lunged, too late.  
Goliath sprang to the top of a wagon and from there into the air,  
gliding desperately. For the second time that night, he caught the princess  
as she fell. He spiraled up around the tower, saw his love stalking toward  
the Magus, saw the Magus raise one spectrally-shimmering arm  
defensively.  
"No!" Goliath shouted. "My angel, no!"  
She whirled toward the sound of his voice. "Goliath? Oh,  
Goliath!"  
He thumped down, released the princess. Katherine stumbled into  
the supportive circle of the Magus' embrace.  
"You're alive!" Goliath started toward her, awestruck, his hands  
still remembering the coarse roughness of the crumbled stone that had  
been piled upon her favorite perch, his hands longing to erase that  
memory with the touch of her warm flesh.  
"No! Don't touch me!" She backed away from him, tears welling  
in eyes that were no longer scarlet with fury but deep and dark with  
anguish.  
"But why? My love --"  
"Why didn't you listen to me?" she wailed, echoing the question  
he'd asked himself not all that long before. "Why didn't you take _all_ the  
gargoyles? It would have worked! But now look! Look what's happened!"  
"What would have worked?"  
She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. He took her by the  
shoulders, held her close. She was shuddering like a leaf in a gale. He  
could feel her trying to pull away, and would not allow it.  
"Don't!" she cried.  
"Tell me," he urged.  
"Why did I even come back? Why couldn't I remember our last  
farewell, remember you loving me? I should have gone away and never  
returned to this place! Better you think me dead than to have you hate  
me!"  
"My love!" He cupped her chin, made her look at him. "I could  
never hate you. Why do you say such a thing?"  
She closed her eyes, tried to turn her head away. "It's my fault,  
Goliath. I destroyed our clan!"  
"You?"  
"I made a bargain with the Captain. With the gargoyles away, the  
Vikings could sack the castle. Then, when all of the humans were gone,  
we could come back and reclaim it as our own! But you didn't listen! You  
left us here!"  
"You ... what?" he gasped strengthlessly.  
"Because of _her_!" Through a storm of weeping, she still  
managed a hateful glare at the princess. "We defend her castle, and she  
thanks us by calling us beasts?"  
"I am so verra sorry for that!" Katherine's eyes were near to  
overflowing now too.  
"You _will_ be sorry!" she swore, her body tensing as she  
readied to pounce.  
Goliath nearly crushed her in his arms. "There will be no more  
killing!"  
"I will have blood for blood!"  
"Was the insult she gave us worth the lives of our clan?" he  
demanded. "Look where your anger has already brought us! No more!  
Enough lives have been lost, human and gargoyle alike!"  
"How can you still defend them after all they've done to us?"  
"If I did not, everything I've done would be for nothing."  
"Look around you, Goliath!" She pointed. "Our clan is in pieces!  
Look at them -- trapped by sorcery! You and I are the last!"  
"No. There are still our clan's children to think of. _Our  
_children, my love."  
"Then let us secure this castle for them! Let it be their home!"  
He slowly shook his head. "We cannot do it alone. There are  
three dozen eggs in the rookery. Can you and I hunt for, and protect, so  
many? The humans have agreed to stay and help look after them."  
"You mean they were going to leave, and you talked them into  
staying?" She stared up at him, appalled.  
"We _chose_ to stay," Katherine said gently. "To make up for  
what we've done. We did yer clan wrong, to be true. I regret my harsh  
words, more than ever now that I see it caused ye to strike such a bargain.  
We can bear this guilt together, all of us, and go on from here." She  
moved away from the Magus. "Let her go, Goliath."  
The Magus silently begged him not to. In that moment the two of  
them shared a perfect understanding, that as soon as Goliath released his  
mate, Katherine's life would be forfeit.  
"Let her go," Katherine repeated.  
He loosed his grip.  
"If ye slay me," she said, standing defenseless with her arms at  
her sides, "ye'll have yer revenge and yer satisfaction. My people will  
leave. The Magus will lead them from here and never return. If that's yer  
wish. But Goliath is right. Yer children may go hungry. Will ye soothe  
their empty bellies with tales of yer vengeance? Will they starve proudly,  
do ye think?"  
"Gargoyles do not need humans!"  
"But children, any children, need providers and protectors. We  
can be both to each others'. Let yer anger rest. Goliath forgives me, and  
ye. Let us not dishonor that by failing to forgive each other, and  
ourselves."  
"I don't seek your forgiveness!"  
"Yet I seek yers. We have both been wrong."  
"I ..." she began, and stepped forward.  
Goliath tensed, meaning to intervene, and he was aware of the  
Magus doing the same thing. But they froze, stunned and nonplussed, as  
the two fell against each other and burst into tears.  
Man and gargoyle shared _another_ moment of perfect  
understanding -- that neither of them comprehended females at all.  
  
* *  
  
They called her Angel.  
The castle priest wasn't overly pleased about it, and it took  
Goliath a long time to get used to his pet name for his love on the lips of  
others. But he came to understand, and so did she, that humans felt more  
comfortable and familiar with things if they could name them.  
"And, after all," she admitted to him one starswept evening as  
they stood hand-in-hand atop the tower with the winter wind rippling their  
wings, "it's not as if a human named me. They're only calling me what  
you always have. How can I find fault with that?"  
The castle below them was abuzz with activity. Word had come  
several weeks back that the king was dead, murdered by a treacherous  
knight named Constantine. The king's son was in hiding, presumably  
gathering forces of his own to retake what was rightfully his.  
Wyvern, being so isolated and generally regarded as strange --  
what other castles had gargoyle defenders in this day and age? -- was not  
caught up in the turmoil. It was regarded as a holding of little  
consequence, ruled as it was by a mere woman.  
The most recent arrivals brought news that Constantine planned  
to tour his newly conquered land, expecting his lords to swear their fealty  
to him. This had been the source of much debate recently between  
Katherine and her advisors.  
"I will swear my loyalty to the crown," Katherine had told them.  
"To the _crown_, but na to the man who has usurped it. And someday, God  
willing, that crown will be where it belongs, on the head of my cousin  
Maol Chalvim. But I will take no action against Constantine while he is  
here. We have too much to lose."  
The castle had been repaired of the damages caused by the Viking  
attack, and now was busy readying for Constantine's visit. His flag, the  
golden gryphon claw on a field of crimson, hung above the doors.  
"My love, look," Angel said, pointing out across the fields.  
A lone rider was approaching the castle. Even from here, they  
could see that he was so weary he nearly fell from the saddle.  
"A messenger," Goliath said. "And not good news, if he's ridden  
so hard. His horse can barely keep its pace." They watched as the rider  
came near, hailed the guards, was admitted into the castle. "Whatever this  
news is, we should hear it."  
By the time they reached Katherine's audience chamber, though,  
the news had already been given. The princess was pale but her eyes were  
bright with anger. The Magus was the very picture of misery.  
Tom, who served as the court page, was livid. "You're not going  
to marry that devil, are you?"  
"Hush, Tom," his mother Mary said.  
"Who sent ye?" Katherine demanded of the messenger.  
"The Lady Finella, once ward and bride-to-be of your uncle King  
Kenneth." He glimpsed the gargoyles, jerked with alarm, then returned his  
attention to the princess.  
"Is something the matter, your highness?" Goliath asked.  
She couldn't bring herself to say it, she was so infuriated.  
"Constantine means to take the princess as his wife," the Magus  
said, sounding as if a blade had gone through him. "By marrying her, he  
plans to legitimize his claim to the throne."  
"I've heard talk of this Lady Finella," Mary said. "She's said to  
be foolish over Constantine. If he takes another wife, that leaves her out."  
"No longer," the messenger said. "My lady has come to despise  
the king with all of the passion she once felt for him."  
"Must you do this?" Angel braced her fists on her hips defiantly.  
"Tell him to --"  
"I have several verra good reasons to obey him," Katherine said  
quietly. "We canna afford a war with the king."  
"He's not the king!" Tom stomped his foot. "He's a murderer!"  
"There's nothing I can do, Tom. I must marry him, or all of my  
people will suffer his wrath." She looked over at Goliath and Angel. "And  
he has no love for gargoyles. Yer eggs will na be spared this time."  
Angel's lip curled. "Let him try!"  
"There must be another way," Goliath said. "I know little of your  
customs of marriage, but aren't you given a choice?"  
"Aye," she sighed. "My father should have married me off years  
ago, but wanted to respect my wishes. Had I heeded him, I'd be wed now,  
and Constantine would have to look elsewhere."  
"Then marry someone else!" Tom said. "Quick, before he gets  
here!"  
"Tom, Tom," she laughed bitterly, shaking her head. "I've no  
suitors, especially none that would risk defying the king."  
"You have one." The Magus came forth and took Katherine's  
hands in his.  
"Och, Magus! I canna ask ye to do this!"  
"No, princess. I'm asking you. Will you marry me?"  
"Magus ... the king ... ye'd put yerself in too much danger ..."  
It was, Goliath thought, as if the rest of them had faded from the  
room like ghosts.  
"I love you, Katherine, to the ends of the earth and beyond.  
Marry me, and we'll face Constantine together."  
She looked deeply into his eyes, her own shining like jewels. "I'd  
be honored to have ye for my husband."  
They leaned toward each other, meaning to kiss, but young Tom  
picked a bad moment to give a loud cheer.  
Katherine blushed and smoothed her gown, then glanced at her  
audience with their identical wide grins. "Just as my father did, we'll be  
wed this verra night!"  
Goliath, amused, noted that the Magus wore an expression that  
he'd only seen once before.  
It had been the night he, his Angel, and their mentor had returned  
from the Archmage's cavern. That gruelling battle had been one of the  
most challenging of his life, with their foe laughing as he blinked around  
them in a ball of fire that grew from the blue-and-gold phoenix he wore on  
his chest.  
Although their mentor had been left scarred, in the end, the  
gargoyles had triumphed. The Archmage had plunged into a chasm, his  
final words a desperate shouting:  
_"Desflagrate muri tempi --"  
_ ... followed by a jarring _thud_.  
With the Grimorum in their possession, they had returned to the  
castle where the prince lay poisoned and ill. When they'd delivered the  
thick tome into the hands of the young Magus, his face had looked much  
as it did now -- awe, wonder, delight, the realization of a long-held  
yearning.  
Only now, as Katherine smiled up at him and gave the order for  
the wedding preparations to be begun, that expression was multiplied a  
thousandfold.  
  
* *  
  
The to-do that followed Katherine's announcement made the  
previous buzz of activity seem like a sleepy drone. One and all were  
wholeheartedly enthusiastic, although surprised at the suddenness of it.  
Which led, of course, to speculations for the reason for such hurry. But  
even the prospect of a too-soon-after-marriage birthing, which humans  
generally regarded as most delicious scandal, was greeted with delight.  
There had been too much death, so new life was more cherished than  
ever.  
Angel shook her head indulgently. "They make such a fuss over  
the simplest things!"  
"It is their way." Goliath shrugged, although he, too, was  
smiling. He knew tonight's business would mean trouble with the king, but  
it was impossible not to be affected by the humans' happiness.  
Mary and some of the other women whisked Katherine away to  
see if her mother's wedding gown could be made to fit her in a matter of  
hours. Tom rallied the other children and took them, under the watchful  
eyes of his Angel, out to gather what flowers and fragrant herbs could be  
found.  
"Goliath?"  
He turned to see the Magus, and inclined his head. "Yes?"  
"It would mean much to me ... to both of us ... if you and Angel  
would stand with us tonight."  
Goliath raised a brow ridge. "In the ceremony? We know little of  
such things. What would we need to do?"  
"By custom, the duty of the best man is to assure that those who  
oppose the wedding cannot burst in and carry off the bride. Katherine and  
I are agreed that there would be none better suited to the task than you."  
"I would be pleased," Goliath said. He noticed that the Magus'  
joy had given way, in a very short time, to nervousness. "Is anything the  
matter? You don't think that the king --"  
"No, no." He forced a laugh. "I never thought this would come to  
be. That I would take a wife, any wife, least of all the princess. It's taking  
some getting used to."  
Goliath nodded sympathetically, remembering how jumpy he and  
his brothers had been the night the elders had led them into the rookery  
that their mates might declare a breeding season. "Yet you love her."  
"With all my heart," he said fervently.  
"That," Goliath said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder, "is all  
you need."  
"There is one thing more I need, in truth, and that is ... advice."  
That brow ridge went up again, higher this time. "Advice,  
Magus? About what?"  
"About ... marriage."  
Strange to see him so hesitant, when he was usually so composed  
and well-spoken. "As I said, we gargoyles know little of such things.  
Prince Malcolm's wedding was the only one I've personally witnessed --  
most humans seem to prefer having such ceremonies by day. Perhaps the  
chaplain would be better suited to giving such advice."  
"Oh, it's not about the ceremony." He looked out over the land,  
took a deep breath, paused. "It's ... what comes after. The ... wedding  
night."  
"I see?" Goliath said, making it a question, not seeing at all.  
"For our marriage to be binding, it must be ... consummated.  
Otherwise, Constantine would have grounds to order an annulment. He  
may well try anyhow, but we must not give him any weapons to use  
against us."  
"Mm-hmm," Goliath prompted, still quite puzzled. "And why is  
this a problem? So you shall ... consummate."  
The Magus swallowed. "Yes."  
They looked at each other. Finally, Goliath spoke. "If I am to  
advise you, I should know what we're talking about."  
"I've never been with a woman before," the Magus confessed  
with much difficulty.  
"Oh!" Goliath nodded. They were talking about mating!  
He should have known. Humans were fixated on it, burdening it  
with stigmas and meanings instead of enjoying it as a natural outpouring of  
affection and desire.  
Now that he thought of it, he could recall several instances where  
he'd overheard guards talking amongst themselves, always carefully out of  
earshot of the Magus, speculating as to his apparent lack of interest. They  
wondered if he had lost that elemental drive, if his tastes ran to something  
other than females, if he were some sort of gelding.  
Seeing how discomfited the Magus was, Goliath did his best to  
keep a straight face. Then his eyes flew wide as he realized what the man  
was asking.  
"And you want ... advice? On this matter? From me?"  
"I have nowhere else to turn." He glanced at the guards in a way  
that told Goliath that not all of their remarks had in fact been as out of  
earshot as they'd hoped.  
"Ah." He drew his talons in a thoughtful line down the side of his  
face. "Well. Hmm."  
"One cannot pursue magic and chambermaids at the same time,"  
the Magus said defensively.  
"I did not mean to imply ..." Goliath coughed, cleared his throat.  
"Magus, I am not familiar with the ... habits of humans. Whenever we  
observed such encounters, we always thought it best to give those  
concerned their privacy. I know humans place importance on that. So  
there are bound to be ... differences."  
"I'm aware of that. But from what I've seen --" and here it was  
his turn to try and keep a straight face, though Goliath knew instantly that  
he had in mind a certain clan leader's reunion flight with his beloved  
Angel, a flight that had obviously not gone unnoticed, "-- the general idea  
would seem to be much the same."  
Except for whatever it was that you did with your tail, his  
expression added silently; the whole castle was wondering about _that_  
one.  
Goliath coughed again. "Ah. Yes."  
"If, perhaps, you would tell me whatever you would tell a young  
gargoyle?"  
"We have no such formal discussions ... generally, the young  
ones learn by observing, and eventually imitating, their elders. But I can  
tell you what my own experience has taught me about females, and you  
might ... modify it to suit your purpose."  
The Magus sighed in mingled embarrassment and relief. "Thank  
you, Goliath."  
  
* *  
  
Always her friend, for as long as she could remember.  
Always her friend, and now her husband.  
Katherine had suspected the Magus had long held feelings for  
her, but as he'd never spoken, never acted, she had let her girlhood  
daydreams wither. But now, here they were, man and wife.  
Of course, she told herself, he did it only to save her from the  
fate of Constantine. His words of love, sweet as they'd been, had been  
meant to let them both believe that they were doing what their hearts  
wished instead of scurrying into marriage as a cowardly escape.  
But these were hardly thoughts she should be having at her  
wedding feast! And for a feast thrown together on such short notice, she  
couldn't help but be proud of how her people had outdone themselves.  
Her mother's gown had fit nearly perfectly. Young Tom had led  
her to the altar, where the Magus waited. Angel and Goliath stood with  
them, producing the rings when called for, and for the first time, everyone  
seemed to accept them as fully belonging to the castle. A new beginning,  
for all of them.  
She had suffered one pang of sorrow that her father hadn't lived  
to see this day, but then took comfort in the knowledge that surely he and  
her mother watched over her from above.  
Now she was wed. The Magus sat beside her, and when she  
touched his hand, he smiled in a way that made her doubt her earlier  
thoughts. A sweet anticipation ran through her though she tried to quell it.  
If this was truly a marriage for form's sake only ...  
But she didn't _want_ it to be for form's sake only. She wanted  
more. Love, children, _him_. To explore and enjoy all the secrets she  
heard her ladies gossiping and giggling over.  
Did he want the same things? She knew there had been women  
before who had taken it into their heads to try and seduce the Magus, to  
wear him as a prize or trophy. But none had succeeded. None had even  
come close. They cattily tore him to pieces later, telling themselves and  
each other that he was a cold fish, as sexless as a stump, soothing their  
wounded pride with that bitter balm.  
The feast was done, down to the last few crumbs and bones on  
the platters, and the minstrels had played until their fingers grew weary.  
Now a bevy of women, led by the beaming Mary, surrounded Katherine.  
"It's time to get ye abed, highness!" Lady Alys tittered madly.  
Ribald cheers from her soldiers greeted this proclamation. But  
even in the midst of her blushing acquiescence, Katherine did not miss  
how they looked at her new husband, how some of them leaned  
conspiratorially close to each other to make scornful comments.  
Prove them wrong, Magus, she thought as they led her from the  
room. Prove them all wrong!  
A warm fire blazed in the bridal chamber. The linens on the large  
bed had been strewn with petals and herbs, the posts hung with charms for  
fertility. Katherine was quickly helped out of her wedding dress and into a  
nightgown of palest mauve with satiny ribbons at the bodice and sleeves.  
Mary brushed her hair until it shone like polished wood, and used  
that moment to whisper so that the others could not hear. "Will ye be  
flying the sheet tomorrow?"  
Katherine blinked at her, then remembered the custom and  
grimaced. "Is that necessary?"  
"I've a bladder of chicken's blood if ye --"  
"Mary!" she gasped.  
"Nae, nae, 'tis a trick many a so-called virgin has used. Just  
struggle a bit, and crush it, and he'll be none the wiser." She winked.  
"Unless he's already ..."  
"Mary!" She drew herself up regally. "There has been no one! I  
go to this bed a virgin!" And I pray, she added to herself, that I don't rise  
from it the same way!  
Mary bowed her head, chastened, and put the brush away. "I  
meant no harm, princess, nor insult to ye."  
"Here they come!" Lady Alys reported gleefully.  
"In ye go, then." Mary pulled the covers to Katherine's chin. "No  
sense giving every man in the castle a peek, now, is there?"  
Usually, Katherine knew, the lords and knights would use the  
time while the bride was upstairs to ply the groom with a few more mugs  
of courage, then tear half his clothes from him and escort him to the bed  
chamber while singing lewd songs. Not so this time! Thankfully!  
Lady Alys held the door open a crack with her eye pressed to it,  
then opened it as the men approached. They all looked awkward and off-  
balance, knowing what they _should_ be doing (drinking and singing) but  
also knowing how fundamentally wrong it would be to do so this time.  
The Magus came in and halted just inside the room while Mary  
shooed the rest of the ladies out and followed them. Then the door was  
closed, the footsteps receded (_now_ with some muffled singing), and the  
two of them were alone.  
He wore his robes, his finest ones. The ring she'd placed on his  
finger glinted in the firelight. His white hair gleamed soft and silken. She  
had always longed to feel its texture, and knew that this night might be her  
chance. Hoped that it would be.  
He drank in the sight of her, not that there was much to see as  
Mary had all but buried her in blankets.  
"Princess ..."  
"Husband." She smiled. "What is yer _real_ name? If ever I  
knew it, I've forgotten it after all these years."  
"My name? Why?"  
"Well, I canna call ye Magus in bed." She sat up, letting the  
covers fall to her waist.  
"Princess ... Katherine ... I ..." he averted his gaze as if from the  
Gorgon's serpentine countenance rather than his welcoming bride.  
"If ye dinna wish to come to bed, I understand," she said gently.  
"But I hope ye dinna think that I've only done this to escape Constantine."  
"The thought did cross my mind," he admitted. "And thus, I'd  
not want to presume ..."  
"Do ye love me, as ye said? If ye do, then come to me,  
husband." She held out her arms.  
"Michael." He moved to the edge of the bed, now letting himself  
look at her with such adoration and longing that she thought she might  
melt from that alone. "That is my given name."  
"Michael." Somehow she'd been expecting something different,  
something otherworldly and strange, but she decided that she liked it.  
Slowly, his motions still flavored with dreamlike unbelief, he  
touched the chestnut fall of her hair, the smoothness of her cheek. She  
closed her eyes and sighed.  
"I never dared hope ..." he said, tracing one finger lightly over  
her face. "You are so fair, so lovely."  
"Why did ye not speak sooner?"  
"Your father the prince did his best to discourage me, as kindly  
as possible. You were meant to marry a lord. Not a wizard. Not the pupil  
of the Archmage, his enemy. Any suit of mine, I thought doomed before it  
began."  
"And now I am yer wife." She turned her head slightly, leaning  
into his caress.  
"But is this what you truly wish? I would not for all the world  
cause you sadness."  
"Ye never shall."  
"Might I ... sit with you, Katherine?"  
"I've been hoping ye would." Twinkling eyes glanced shyly up at  
him. "And more besides. 'Tis our wedding night, after all."  
"I'd not want to disappoint ..." he murmured, leaning closer.  
Their lips brushed, and for a moment she thought he would pull  
away. But his hesitation passed and the next thing she knew, his arms  
were around her.  
The dams and walls guarding their passion crumbled away,  
loosing a wild torrent. She felt the fire within him that she'd thought  
burned only for his magic, now burning for her.  
The intensity of his need would have frightened her if her own  
had not matched it. They fell back across the bed, somehow divesting each  
other of robes and nightgown without ceasing their frantic kisses.  
She had never expected this, imagining instead that she would  
have to coax him, convince him. That they would curiously, even timidly,  
find their way together. But the same storm swept them both up, dashing  
apart the last of their reserve.  
His hands seemed to leave trails of white-hot flame as they  
moved. He rained kisses upon her, each one like a spark that glowed  
against her flesh.  
"Michael ..." Katherine moaned, sinking her fingers into the long  
white hair that felt just as she had hoped it might. "Yes, husband, make  
love to me!"  
  
* *  
  
The stone walls were not thick enough.  
Goliath and his Angel didn't miss the startled and re-evaluating  
expressions on the faces of many of the humans at the sounds of passion  
that came from the bridal chamber.  
"Are we the only ones who thought those two had blood in their  
veins?" Angel wondered. "As opposed to ice water?"  
"Apparently so," he rumbled, amused.  
She tipped an ear toward the stairs, grinning. "And they said our  
breeding season was noisy!"  
"It was," he reminded her, extending his tail to coil around her  
ankle.  
"Oh, is that your game, my love?" she purred.  
Their actions were hidden by the table, and to all appearances  
they were merely sitting in the places of honor they'd enjoyed during the  
feast, watching the revelry. Although the minstrel was exhausted, some of  
the younger folk had collected bowls to serve as drums and made their  
own tunes for dancing.  
"Game?" He inched his tail higher, tickling briefly behind her  
knee.  
She raised her goblet nonchalantly, looking innocent while her  
tail slid quickly up and under his loincloth. Goliath jumped, sending his  
own goblet clattering to the floor. Her low, throaty laugh was at once  
challenging and inviting.  
"I think we've stayed long enough," he said.  
"Not yet, we haven't."  
"What are you doing?!"  
"You started it. Now, quit squirming, you'll attract attention."  
"Angel ..." He had to grit his teeth as she started doing the most  
alarming and delicious things -- how come, in all this time, he'd never  
learned that the females knew a few tail maneuvers of their own?  
"Hush, Goliath. You don't want me to stop, do you?"  
He managed a strangled groan that was meant to be, "No!"  
"I didn't think so," she said smugly.  
"If you continue," he warned when he could speak again, "there  
will be consequences!"  
"Hmm, what would happen if I did ... this?"  
His talons dug trenches in the tabletop.  
"Or, perhaps ... this?"  
"NNNNRRRAAARGH!"  
All eyes swung his way, but he was past caring. He nearly  
overturned the table leaping to his feet. One arm caught Angel around the  
waist, pulling her out of her chair. She kicked and struggled playfully as  
he sprang onto the wide ledge and out the window, dragging her with him.  
  
* *  
  
**995 A.D.  
  
** "You're what?" Constantine asked, as if he was certain he'd  
misheard the first time.  
"Married," Katherine said calmly.  
"To ... _him_?" the usurper king demanded incredulously.  
"Even so," the Magus replied, stepping forward to stand at his  
wife's side.  
"I won't allow it. I'll have it annulled."  
"Ye canna do that, my lord. We're well and truly wed."  
Katherine shrugged and spread her hands. "If ye'd made yerself known  
sooner ... but there's nothing that can be done!"  
In the king's entourage, a blond woman in a blue gown allowed  
herself a small, triumphant smile. Katherine saw it, but luckily,  
Constantine did not.  
"Nothing?" He reached for the hilt of his sword. "If you were  
untimely a widow ..."  
_ Swoop-thump!  
_ Constantine whirled, found himself face to face with Goliath and  
Angel.  
"That would be ... unwise," Goliath said.  
"Ye canna think that I'd marry the man who killed my husband,"  
Katherine chided. She and the Magus shared a warm glance, and then she  
added, "What then of my babe?"  
"Your ..." He looked to her waist, noted the thickening bulge. He  
slammed the half-drawn sword back into the sheath in disgust. "Fine! My  
best wishes to you! But someday you'll regret this, Katherine. You could  
have done much better."  
"I'll be the judge of that," she said, skirting the very edge of  
contempt.  
He scowled, but Goliath glowered, and that was the end of that.  
Constantine departed Wyvern with undue haste the very next day.  
  
* *  
  
**998 A.D.  
  
** "Goliath! Goliath! They're hatching!" Angel charged into the  
courtyard where her mate was instructing several of the castle youths in  
combat.  
He left off at once, turning eagerly toward her. One of his  
students had launched a blow and was unable to check his swing in time. It  
glanced off Goliath's shoulder, and the lad who had landed it went grey  
with horror. But Goliath barely noticed.  
"Are you sure?"  
"Come and see for yourself!" She tugged him toward the  
rookery.  
The people of Wyvern watched them pass, and news spread  
eagerly from one set of ears to the next. Their castle had become a  
sanctuary, a safe haven, an isle of serenity in the ongoing strife that had  
characterized Constantine's short reign. Now there was a new king, a  
nephew of murdered Kenneth, who permitted his cousin to rule her  
isolated holding as she saw fit. Even with the eccentricity of gargoyles.  
The stone tiers above the sunken floor had never looked so  
empty. Now, if ever, was a time when the entire clan should have been  
gathered to witness the arrival of the next generation. The females might  
lay the eggs in private, but when hatching-time came, the whole clan was  
supposed to be present.  
"Our future," Angel said. "We're not the last. We're not alone."  
Goliath put an arm around her and they watched as the eggs  
rocked in their nests of straw.  
"May we join ye?"  
At the doorway was Katherine, her infant daughter Dierdre held  
to her breast. The Magus stood behind her holding their son Bowdyn, and  
thirteen-year-old Tom crowded in trying to see what was happening.  
Goliath looked at Angel and she understood it was up to her. By  
permitting the humans to stay, she was taking the final step in admitting  
them into the clan. They had no right to be here ... if not for the humans,  
the hatchlings would have more than two parents. But by that same token,  
she and Goliath had no right to be here either. The blame was shared  
among all. So, too, should the rest.  
"Come," she said. "There should be more than just Goliath and I  
to welcome them to the world."  
Just then, one tiny taloned foot kicked a hole in the first egg. The  
shell rolled, split apart, and dumped a wailing baby gargoyle into the  
straw.  
Angel bent and gathered up the little one, wiping the fluids away.  
"There, now. It's all right."  
The lavender-skinned hatchling stared up at her and gurgled  
adorably.  
"Look at her," Katherine exclaimed. "A wee angel in miniature!  
Ye should call her Angela!"  
Goliath reached over and touched the hatchling, who instantly  
clamped onto his finger and tried to eat it. Her pointy fangs nearly drew  
blood. She pulled herself up, grabbing onto a clump of Angel's hair and  
earring.  
"Ow!" she said good-naturedly, disentangling it. "Angela ... I  
like the sound of that!"  
"How are we to name them all?" Goliath pondered.  
"We'll help!" Tom said as the second egg burst into pieces,  
spilling out a grey-green male. "He could be Gabriel, like the Archangel!"  
All that night and the next, they tended newly-hatched gargoyles.  
The Magus, even with his education, was hard-pressed to come up with  
names for them all. Biblical (Malachi, Jacob, Ruth), gemstones  
(Tourmaline, Carnelian, Onyx), classical (Ophelia, Laertes, Thisbe), and  
local (Corwin, Boudicca, Angus).  
"Look at this one, my angel," Goliath said, lifting a feisty,  
wiggling male. "He has your coloring. And your temper," he added as the  
hatchling let out a surprisingly loud squall of irritation.  
"Joshua," the Magus suggested.  
Angel frowned. "No ... I don't care for it."  
"Well, then ... Jericho," he threw out tiredly.  
"Magus, that's a place, not a person," Katherine teased.  
"Jericho." Goliath nodded. "Yes. That will do. Your name is  
Jericho," he told the hatchling, who had by now caught hold of one of  
Goliath's brow ridges and was trying to clamber up his face.  
At last, there was only one egg left.  
"D'ye think that one is all right?" Katherine asked. "It's not like  
the others."  
Goliath picked it up, cradling the small pale pinkish shell in his  
hands. "Sometimes, they do not hatch," he said sadly. "It is warm, but I  
feel no stirring."  
"Can't ye break it open?" Tom urged.  
"It would be a shame to lose even one of our children," Angel  
said from where she sat in the straw, with hatchlings tumbling and  
crawling all around her legs.  
"Here," Tom said, producing a knife. "Crack it with this!"  
Goliath accepted it, carefully braced the point against the egg,  
and tapped on the hilt. The shell was far thinner than the others, giving  
way easily. Moments later, a small, still form came into view.  
"A girl," Katherine murmured, holding her own daughter close.  
"The poor bairn!"  
"She was not developed properly," Goliath said, shaking his head  
as he examined the misshapen hands, the frail wings. "Perhaps it is better  
this way."  
The hatchling coughed and began to cry in a thin, reedy voice.  
"She lives!" Katherine touched the light-brown silky hair, so like  
that which crowned baby Dierdre's head.  
Goliath and Angel looked heavily at each other, neither wanting  
to be the first to say it. "You are the leader, my love," Angel finally said.  
"Whatever you think must be done ..."  
"What are ye talking about?" Tom demanded. "Ye don't mean to  
... ye can't!"  
"Even if she lived to maturity, she'd never be a proper warrior,"  
Goliath said. "She would always be sickly, a burden to her clan."  
"She's just the runt of the litter!" Tom protested. "Ye can't kill  
her for that!"  
"Kill her!" Katherine pressed a hand to her mouth in horror.  
"Och, Goliath, ye mustn't!"  
"We already have so many healthy ones to care for ..." Angel  
said.  
"Then we'll look after her!" Katherine scooped the ivory-hued  
hatchling from Goliath's grasp.  
"You are only making sorrow for yourself," Goliath said, but did  
not attempt to take her back.  
"She'll survive," Katherine declared. "I'll see to that. She'll grow  
as a sister to my own children."  
"As you will, princess."  
"And if she lives," Tom said belligerently, "ye'll train her as  
well. She's still a gargoyle, after all! She deserves the chance to be a  
warrior, and a part of the clan."  
  
* *  
**1010 A.D.  
  
** "Well, Goliath, we've proved ye wrong," Katherine said proudly.  
"Elektra lives, and is stronger than ever. She is even growing faster than  
any of her siblings."  
"I admit it, princess. I misjudged her. Thank you for  
intervening."  
"It astounds me how like Dierdre she is," the princess confessed.  
"They're like sisters of blood as well as raising. Look at them."  
Goliath did, seeing the two females playing together in the little  
garden that Tom's wife Moll had planted alongside the stable. The  
hatchlings were twelve years old now, which made them equivalent in size  
to Tom's six-year-old son Kieran. But Elektra towered over her siblings,  
looking closer in age to eight or ten, though still frail by gargoyle  
standards.  
She did resemble Dierdre, Goliath saw. And Katherine, too.  
They all had the same light brown hair, the same pale blue eyes, the same  
fair skin. When Elektra sat with her wings caped and her tail hidden, it  
was almost as if she wasn't a gargoyle at all. If she didn't turn to stone  
with the dawn like the rest of them, Goliath might have been inclined to  
wonder.  
"You wanted to inspect the battlements," Goliath reminded the  
princess. "I think you'll be pleased. The masons have --"  
"Rargh!" A blue bundle of energy sprang from the shadows,  
landing on Goliath's back. Talons scrabbled for a hold, bracing themselves  
on his wings. Claws dug into his ears. "Got you!"  
"Jericho!" Katherine scolded. "Have ye no manners?"  
Goliath's laugh rolled deep and merry. "Attacking me, are you?  
We'll see about that!" He plucked the lad from his shoulders and shook  
him until red hair flew and Jericho's squeal of mirth echoed from the  
walls.  
"I'm going to be a great warrior!" Jericho announced. "Just like  
Goliath!"  
"That you will! Now, what are you doing up here? I thought  
Angel was taking all of you hunting."  
Jericho made a face. "I'm tired of chasing scared rabbits that  
she's already snared and loosed in the field! I want to hunt real game,  
fight real battles! Besides, they're done. Angela and the other _girls_  
wanted to go collect _flowers_," he finished disdainfully.  
"Well, we can't have you running loose and getting into trouble!"  
He ruffled the boy's hair. "Go find your brothers, and I'll start teaching  
you how to use a bow as soon as the princess and I finish what we're  
doing."  
"A bow? Really?" Jericho's eyes lit up. "Can I be first?"  
"Of course," Goliath chuckled indulgently.  
All but skipping in excitement, Jericho hurried off, yelling for  
Gabriel.  
"He's a scamp, that he is," Katherine said.  
"Yes, but there's the making of a good leader within him."  
"How could there not, given his lineage?" She smiled. "He and  
Angela do take after their parents. Ye and Angel must be proud of yer  
children."  
"We are proud of all of them. Why should we make exceptions?  
It is not the gargoyle way to favor one hatchling over another."  
"Even for yer own son and daughter?"  
"Daughters and sons belong to the entire clan. How would we  
know whose children are whose?"  
"Ye have eyes, don't ye?" She shook her head in amazement.  
"Have ye not seen that those two are yer own flesh and blood? Look at  
Jericho -- why, once he grows into those wings and great oversized feet of  
his, he'll be as tall as ye, but with his mother's coloring. And Angela,  
with yer hair and skin ..."  
"It doesn't matter," he said. "They are _all_ our children, and  
we, my Angel and I, are their only parents."  
She nodded, and her tone said that she would let him have his  
way even if she thought he was being silly. "Verra well, Goliath."  
But as she started up the stairs toward the battlements, he paused,  
and let his gaze find Jericho where the lad was wrestling in mock battle  
with some of his brothers.  
From there, he looked to Tom and Kieran, teaching the watchdog  
Boudicca to retrieve a cloth ball. The ball had sprung several seams and  
was trailing its stuffing as the green-gold puppy raced in circles with  
Kieran giggling at her heels.  
And from there, to the balcony, where Bowdyn, tall for his  
fifteen years and already showing the light blond fuzz of a beard on his  
chin, stood in consult with his father the Magus.  
A son, Goliath mused. _My _son.  
But what was he thinking? He had nineteen sons, all of them fine  
and strong. And many daughters as well. To show any preference was not  
the gargoyle way.  
  
* *  
  
**1018 A.D.  
  
** Elektra watched alone from the window as the gargoyles, her  
rookery brothers and sisters, assembled for their warrior training.  
No longer one of them. She could not deny it any further. The  
differences in her were becoming too great to allow the comfort of self-  
delusion.  
They had hatched twenty years ago, all of them. But here she  
was, already with the outward appearances of physical maturity, with the  
figure of an adult female while her sisters were only beginning to show  
signs of adolescence.  
It might not have been so bad, had she not lagged so far behind  
Dierdre. Her crib-sister, as Tom called them, was a woman now, with a  
husband and children of her own. Inseparable friends as children, they had  
grown apart.  
And so here is Elektra, she thought. Distant from her clan, now  
distant from her family as well.  
Family. So she had always felt them to be. Katherine, who had  
been as a mother to her. The Magus, father and teacher in much the same  
way Goliath was father and teacher to the rest of the clan. Tom was like a  
much-loved uncle, his children her cousins.  
Prince Bowdyn had always been aloof and somewhat resentful of  
her, for he'd been forced to share his parents' affections not only with his  
baby sister but with a gargoyle foundling-child. His resentment had grown  
when it became clear that she alone understood the Magus' art. Bowdyn  
himself knew he could not have his magic and still inherit Wyvern, but  
that had not stopped him from taking a bitter view of Elektra.  
Even so, even with all of that, she had let herself be lulled. Even  
fancied herself human, ridiculous notion!  
No longer. It had finally come clear to her. Dierdre's husband  
was high in the favor of the current king, and while he bore no great  
enmity toward gargoyles, neither held he love of them. When he had  
invited the family to spend the winter holidays at his hall, it had been  
made most clear that Elektra would not be warmly welcomed.  
She had pretended other reasons to stay, much to Dierdre's relief.  
With her family gone, she'd tried to renew her friendships with the clan,  
but found that she had grown apart from them, too. They thought she put  
on airs, tried to be human, and she could not deny that charge.  
Hadn't she even been mistaken for human on occasion? Hadn't  
there been that courtier, so flattering in his attention until Bowdyn pointed  
out that she was a gargoyle? He'd drawn away from her at once, and ever  
thereafter glowered at her, as if the deception had been her fault.  
Goliath and Angel were unfailingly kind to her, but she knew  
they wondered what it was that made her so different. Wondered what  
kind of future she could have.  
They weren't alone in so wondering. More and more, that  
question consumed her mind. She knew of the difficulty of her hatching,  
of the tenuous balance in which her life had been suspended. What had  
happened to her egg to make it unlike its fellows? What had happened to  
_her_?  
Despairing, knowing that she would never find answers, she  
turned away from the window and set about tiding the princess' chamber.  
They'd packed for their trip in something of a rush, and those winter  
garments discovered to be in need of mending were hastily tossed aside.  
Well, she told herself, trying to brighten her mood, if there was  
one thing these long-fingered hands were skilled at, it was sewing.  
She fetched needle and thread and went to work. As she was  
putting everything away in the large trunk that had belonged to the  
princess' father, her hand brushed something. A large squarish lump in the  
lining. Tracing its shape, she decided it was some sort of book, and found  
the hole where it had slipped through and become trapped.  
A book would help pass the time, she thought, and began to read.  
  
* *  
  
**1030 A.D.  
  
** "If they breach the walls, we'll all be done for! If we only  
frighten them off, they'll return by day and the humans won't be able to  
hold the castle." Jericho's voice dropped harshly. "You know what  
happens then."  
"What would you have us do?" said quiet Thisbe breathlessly.  
"Not take the battle to them?"  
"That very thing!" Jericho turned in a slow circle, catching and  
holding each of his siblings' gazes. "Who's with me?"  
Some of them looked away, but none disagreed aloud when  
Gabriel stepped forward with Angela by his side. "We all are, brother.  
It's time we put our training to good use."  
"Good." Jericho nodded sharply. "Ophelia, Hippolyta, Corwin,  
you're the best archers among us. Find the Viking commanders and shoot  
them down. Jacob is the quickest and has the keenest eyes; he'll scout  
them out for you."  
"That's hardly fair fighting ..." Corwin began.  
Hippolyta whirled on him. "Would you rather be fair, pretty-boy,  
or alive? They showed no such courtesy to _our_ leader!"  
"Well said." He flashed her a strained grimace that was a shadow  
of his usual winning grin.  
For a moment all of them fell silent, trying not to think of the  
image that would forever be imprinted in their minds -- of Goliath gliding  
to catch his beloved Angel as she tumbled boneless from the catapult strike  
that had rendered her unconscious. Of a Norse-accented voice bellowing  
from the flame and thunder of the army, "Arrows _away_!" and a volley  
of hissing, whistling shafts blotting out the moon. Of Goliath twisting in  
flight, shielding Angel with his body so that the arrows plunged and  
bristled into his back. Of his fall, only barely checked by Jericho, Gabriel,  
and Angela, who had borne the two adults to earth while the rest of their  
siblings looked on in horror.  
Now Goliath lay nearby, watching and listening but not speaking,  
while the Magus and Ruth did their best to stanch the apparently endless  
flow of blood. Angel was crumpled beside him, and even in his extremity  
of pain, Goliath cradled her head gently to keep it from having to rest on  
cold ground.  
Jericho went on. "Malachi, Angus, Deborah, you're the  
strongest. The battering rams are yours, tear them to kindling. Speaking of  
kindling, Carnelian, Laertes, get behind their lines and light fire to their  
supply wagons."  
"I will stay and tend to Goliath and Angel," Ruth said as if  
expecting him to argue.  
"Good. Miriam, help her." He paused, then added, "We'll need  
someone to stay here and guard them, in case any Viking slip past the  
defenses."  
"I will stay," Icarus replied at once, his tone thanking Jericho for  
finding a way to leave him behind that didn't make him feel like a cripple,  
and useless.  
"Tourmaline --" he faltered when he saw how her eyes were  
alight with shining admiration, "you take Thisbe, Zachariah, and Elswyth.  
Spook the horses."  
"What of the rest of us?" Ezekiel asked eagerly.  
"Arm yourselves," Jericho said. "You're with me."  
As they scattered to do just that, Jericho heard Goliath speak his  
name and went to him, kneeling, on earth grown dark with blood. He tried  
not to look at it, tried not to see the arrows that pierced so deep that the  
fletching was only barely visible, the arrows that the Magus could only  
remove by cutting away skin and flesh. To look would shatter his last  
belief in Goliath's invulnerability.  
Instead he fixed his gaze on that lined, careworn face. For the  
first time, he noticed the grey that was beginning to appear in Goliath's  
sable mane. That, too, unnerved him. Goliath and Angel were not  
supposed to grow old. They were supposed to be forever young. A love  
such as theirs had to be eternal.  
He cast those thoughts away, and met Goliath's dark eyes.  
"You're a born leader," Goliath said.  
"I'm a _made_ leader," Jericho corrected, gripping Goliath's  
shoulder as if he could send his own life force into that wounded body. "I  
won't disappoint you ... Father."  
Goliath began to cough, the spasms wracking his frame, causing  
the barbs to shift and move in his back and inflict new injuries. He bore it  
stoically, but Jericho uttered a low cry of pain as if he himself felt the hot  
bite of steel. How could he leave? How could he leave, when he might  
return to find Goliath gone?  
"Go," Goliath managed to say, as if reading his thoughts.  
"Protect ..." more coughing, and his hand clamped down on Jericho's  
with agonizing force, "protect the castle. Lead your clan."  
He understood then that Goliath was saying goodbye. But he  
would not weep, would show only strength. Not trusting himself to speak,  
he could only nod.  
"You'll do well," Goliath said. "Now ... go."  
Jericho resolutely turned from that scene and found Prince  
Bowdyn atop the wall, attempting to rally his men. Wyvern had never  
been a populous castle, and less so since the massacre thirty-six years ago,  
but what soldiers they had carried the benefit of good training. Between  
Goliath's skill, Angel's cunning, and the good-natured but firm guidance  
of Tom, now Captain of the Guard, those few men were each worth three  
Vikings.  
The Vikings still had them greatly outnumbered. They were led  
by one Olgar Helgasson, son of none other than the dreaded Haakon. He  
had been little more than a babe in arms when his father died, raised all  
his life burning with the desire to avenge.  
"We canna hold them back!" Bowdyn pounded his fist on the  
wall. Although he greatly resembled his father the Magus, he had  
inherited his mother's noble bearing and, so Jericho heard, his grandsire  
Malcolm's strong jaw.  
"My gargoyles are ready, highness," Jericho said.  
Bowdyn gave him a scathing once-over, and Jericho was all too  
aware that while he was nearly Goliath's match in height, he had yet to fill  
out. Still, that left him more than a match for a human, a fact he would be  
happy to demonstrate if they had the time.  
"_Yer_ gargoyles?" Princess Katherine cut in, before her  
occasionally quick-tongued son could make a remark he might quickly  
regret. The woman, her brown hair now liberally streaked with silver,  
stood as tall and proud as ever, despite an uncontrollable trembling in her  
aged hands. In recent years, she had yielded almost all of the duties of  
rule to Bowdyn, but was still the princess, still beloved of her people.  
"Goliath ... he's na ... he canna be ..."  
"The Magus and my sister Ruth are caring for him," Jericho said,  
meaning it to be reassuring but hearing the thickness in his voice that told  
of unshed tears, of certain fate. "Angel has also been struck down, and has  
yet to regain consciousness. In the meanwhile, Goliath has entrusted me  
with leadership of the clan. And we are going into battle."  
"Jericho, nae!" Katherine cried in dismay. "We canna lose ye,  
too!"  
He just looked at her, not needing to say what he'd already said  
to his clan. She remembered. She understood.  
At last she bowed her head. "Aye, then, ye must."  
"_Are_ yer warriors capable?" Bowdyn asked.  
Jericho forced a smile. "You forget, highness, that we are not as  
much younger than you as we appear to be. Your kind age while you  
sleep; our kind does not. Our waking hours have been filled with training.  
We may lack experience, but --" he broke off, looked to the courtyard,  
then back to Bowdyn, "we have reason to fight."  
"So be it," Bowdyn said after a stern glower from his mother.  
"Captain!"  
Tom left off advising the sentries. There was a momentary lull in  
the battle, the Vikings having fallen back to regroup. Although they'd  
brought down both Goliath and Angel, it hadn't been without terrible cost  
to their troops.  
"The gargoyles prepare to attack," Bowdyn told him. "Instruct  
our men to do what they can to aid them."  
"From within the walls, or without?" Tom asked cannily.  
Bowdyn snorted. "_Have_ we men willing to leave the walls for  
an assault?"  
"Kieran's riders are willing, highness," Tom said, with great  
evident pride in his son.  
"I dinna like opening the gates, even for a moment." Bowdyn  
drummed his fingers.  
"Have them ready at the gate," Jericho suggested. "Then, if our  
attack disorganizes the Vikings, as we hope, send them out to strike."  
"Aye, that'll do," Tom said without waiting for Bowdyn's  
approval, and went to give the orders while the prince glared.  
"He yet thinks of me as a boy," Bowdyn muttered.  
Jericho forced another smile. "He yet calls us eggs, so you're  
some better off!"  
Moments later, he rejoined his clan. They were wary but excited,  
most eager for their first taste of real warfare. Those that weren't masked  
it well.  
"Let's show them," Jericho said, "how we protect our home."  
Thirty young warriors followed him from the battlements, full-  
throated battle cries ringing.  
It wasn't clean. That was Jericho's first thought as he got a close-  
up look at the carnage below. Not clean. The men didn't go easily into  
death, but kicking and thrashing and fighting for life. Blood and bodies  
were everywhere. Men slipped in the entrails of their comrades, their  
horses, their foes. The horror of it, horror that all Goliath's teaching  
couldn't properly instill, smote him like a blow.  
He heard outbursts from his siblings, but none of them wavered.  
Each went as they had been assigned, to the supply wagons or the  
catapults or to seek out the commanders with as deadly a hail of arrows as  
had greeted Goliath.  
Later, he would remember little. Just a grim determination to  
survive and to kill.  
He would later hear from captives that the Vikings had been told  
by their spies that only two adult gargoyles guarded Wyvern and that the  
rest were children. Thus, they had felt they could risk an attack at dusk,  
when the castle's human defenders would be at their weakest. They had  
not counted on the fate that now befell them.  
His clan descended on the Vikings like divine judgement. The  
night became a turbulent hell.  
Spears and missiles arced up toward the gargoyles, were easily  
avoided, fell back amid the churning troops. Men were plucked screaming  
from their saddles, thrown onto the upraised swords and axes of their  
fellows.  
Kieran's riders charged into the fray. Olgar Helgasson bellowed  
orders, until Ophelia's arrow transfixed his temples.  
Jericho lost himself in the fire and fury. Lost himself, until a  
banshee howl shattered the heavens and made everyone on the field, man  
and gargoyle alike, stop as one.  
The banshee howl was Angel's, and Jericho knew of only one  
thing that could make her voice such a cry. A terrible fist of grief crushed  
his heart.  
Moments later, she appeared on the wall, one wing hanging  
awkwardly and one leg bent from the catapult shot that had nearly taken  
her life. Her eyes blazed with such scarlet light that they seemed to cast  
their glow over the entire land, tinting all with the hue of blood.  
"No," Jericho whispered, knowing what she meant to do.  
Ruth appeared beside her, gesturing, imploring, but Angel shook  
her off and leaped, gliding clumsily but purposefully into the thick of the  
fight. Her claws began scything, a harvest of Vikings falling like wheat.  
"Stop her!" Corwin and Onyx were nearby; Jericho pulled them  
with him as he sped in that direction. "She means to get herself killed!"  
Viking with a spear, looming unseen behind Angel as she gutted a  
horseman. Jericho's warning swallowed by the din.  
But then Angela was there, her tail whipping around the spear  
and yanking it from the man's grasp. And Gabriel, seizing the man's neck  
in the crook of his arm and snapping it sideways with a hard jerk.  
Angel ignored all of this and went after the next human,  
trampling and gouging the fallen wounded beneath her talons. Her leg  
buckled, spilled her amid the dying. One of them had presence enough of  
mind to grab up a knife and stab at her, grazing her chest and ripping  
through the membrane of her good wing, pinning her to the ground.  
The man she'd been about to kill now came at her with a deadly  
crescent-shaped hand axe.  
"Corwin!" Jericho pointed.  
Corwin hurled a spear into the man's back. But as he fell, the axe  
swept forward on a course that would bury it in Angel's skull.  
Gabriel kicked the weapon, slicing his foot to the bone but  
deflecting it enough so that it missed Angel and finished off a Viking who  
was just beginning to rise.  
Angela reached Angel, pulled the knife loose before Angel could  
shred her wing with her struggles.  
"Let go of me!" Angel snarled.  
"Don't do this!" Angela wrapped her arms around the older  
female despite her struggles. "We need you! Angel, we need you!"  
Jericho landed. "Get her back to the castle!"  
"No!" Angel lashed out at him and he darted his head back just in  
time to spare himself some vicious slashes. "I have to finish this!"  
"We'll finish it!" he shouted.  
"Goliath is --"  
"I know!" He bit his lip until it bled. "I know. We can't lose you,  
too."  
"Don't leave us," Angela said, almost begged. "Please, Mother!"  
She fell apart in Angela's arms like a broken doll, and gave no  
more resistance. Gabriel and Angela lifted her between them, carried her  
toward the castle.  
Now Jericho saw others of his siblings, wounded, fleeing back to  
the shelter of the stone walls. But the Vikings were retreating, panicked,  
only pockets of fighting left.  
He saw Ezekiel wielding his staff, a large ring of men with  
broken limbs or cracked skulls piled around him, but behind Ezekiel,  
Thisbe was pale with dread as she tried to bandage Jacob's leg, the small  
tan gargoyle gone faded yellow from loss of blood.  
The others, all around Jericho, had wounds ranging from  
scratches to severe. He saw their faces, so scared and hurt, but they had  
come too far. They had to finish it, as he had promised.  
Horses pounded up to him. He recognized Kieran and his men;  
was surprised to see Hippolyta also on horseback. The surprise vanished  
the moment he glimpsed her wings, peppered with holes. She must have  
flown through a hailstorm of arrows.  
"Get back to the castle!"  
"This isn't done yet!" she shot back. "I cannot glide, but I can  
ride! And while I can ride, I can fight!"  
Pointless to argue with her, he knew that. Glancing around, he  
saw that Corwin was still nearby, and Zachariah, Laertes, and Onyx. All  
appeared in fairly good health, minor injuries only, and the light of battle  
still blazed in their eyes.  
"We can take them!" Kieran said. "We've got them on the run  
already! Let's drive them into the sea from whence they came, what say  
ye?"  
"Follow me," Jericho said, and led the way.  
It was ridiculously easy, that last effort. A few Vikings, a  
handful, no more, fled into the deep woods with Kieran's riders in pursuit.  
The rest died trying to defend themselves from the diminished, but even  
fiercer, host of demons that dove shrieking from the sky to rend and slay.  
Some reached their ships, but Laertes and Corwin hastily improvised  
burning arrows to set the wooden crafts aflame.  
"Victory is ours!" Onyx cried, waving the sword she'd seized.  
"Celebrate later," Jericho told her. "Back to the castle!"  
They were greeted with cheers as they approached. The Vikings  
had been thoroughly routed. Tom's soldiers moved in businesslike ranks  
across the field, taking prisoners, mercifully dispatching the dying. The  
battle was won, the castle safe.  
Jericho found that it meant far less to him than he'd always  
thought it would. Where was the honor in this? He finally understood what  
Goliath had been trying to teach them. They needed to be warriors to  
survive, to protect their clan and their home. But they were not warriors  
for the glory of it. Only a fool would find pride in this madness and death.  
He saw similar realizations on the faces of his siblings as they  
glided over the devastated land and into the courtyard. Their first battle  
had been something they'd all anticipated. Now they yearned for their  
shattered innocence. This was no hatchling game.  
The other gargoyles were gathered solemnly around Angel, who  
knelt in private, untouchable anguish. None of the others spoke, or moved  
except Ruth, who went quietly among them and gave or coaxed or forced  
healing attentions.  
Angela stood closest to Angel, but was overcome by her own  
sorrow and weeping against Gabriel's chest.  
At their feet was a heap of gravel and dust that made an outline  
on the crimson-stained earth.  
Jericho took a deep breath, and let it out in a quaking sigh. He  
went to Angel, kneeling at her side. He took her hand in both of his. She  
did not look up, but he sensed that she welcomed what scant comfort the  
touch offered.  
Another figure knelt on Angel's other side, took her other hand.  
Princess Katherine, with the Magus standing behind her. Others joined the  
circle -- Tom, Kieran. Elektra should be with them, Jericho thought, and  
it startled him into realizing how long it had been since he or any of them  
had spoken of their runaway sister.  
"He was the greatest warrior I've ever known," Katherine said  
softly. "And I know he'd be proud of all of ye."  
"Deborah?" Jericho asked without turning his head.  
His sister, she of the prominently unattractive nose horn and the  
celestially beautiful voice, came forward. "Yes, brother?"  
"You and Laertes are the musicians, the singers. Make a song, so  
that we and our descendants will never forget Goliath's bravery and  
devotion to his clan. A song of how he chose to stay, and give us life and  
a future, when all else seemed lost."  
"We will," she promised.  
Angela wiped her eyes. "Our children's children must learn it and  
pass it down. If it takes a hundred years or a thousand until this castle  
rises above the clouds, there will be gargoyles who remember Goliath,  
gargoyles there to greet his friends."  
  
* *   
  
  
**_PART TWO -- MACBETH_**   
  
**994 A.D.  
Somewhere in Scotland ...  
  
** "I'll not be tellin' ye again to get that milk!" his father growled.  
"I'm going, I'm going!"  
Grumbling to himself, he picked up the bucket and headed  
outside. High overhead, clouds scudded across the moon. Bare branches  
like bones scratched at the sky.  
He pulled the heavy door open. Even if he'd been struck blind, he  
would know he was in a barn by the smells -- manure, horsehide, sheep,  
straw, dust, apples, turnips.  
The plowhorse neighed skittishly and tossed its head. The cow  
lowed and shifted in her stall. Far in the back of the barn, something  
rustled in the shadows.  
The boy stopped just inside, his nerves suddenly jumping and  
tingling. "Is somebody there?"  
More rustling, furtive somehow.  
He set down the bucket and picked up the pitchfork that leaned  
against the wall, moving slowly and carefully so as not to alert an intruder  
to the fact that he had a weapon.  
It could well be an intruder, too, he thought. A brigand, a beggar  
... or something even worse. Lately, there had been sightings of rogue  
gargoyles about. One of them might have come sneaking in, looking for  
food.  
"I know ye're there," he said, trying to sound manly and tough  
and older than his years. "Come out where I can see ye."  
Silence. More unnerving than the rustling had been. It was a  
_waiting_ silence.  
He moved closer. Now he could see an overturned bin, spilled  
cores and rinds on the floor.  
"I'm not going to --"  
A dark shape launched itself from the shadows, hurtling right for  
him. Claws slashed across his face. He screamed and dropped the  
pitchfork, clapping his hands over his stinging, bleeding skin.  
The shape bolted past him, hissing in fury. It scaled a beam and  
crouched in the rafters, glaring down at him with hate-filled glowing eyes.  
The boy lowered his hands and looked at the thin streaks of  
blood. He peered into the dully reflective side of the milk bucket at the  
scratches on his nose.  
"A pox on ye and all yer kind!" he swore, shaking his fist at the  
cat in the rafters. It bared its fangs and hissed again by way of reply.  
Muttering curses, he dabbed the blood away and set about  
milking the cow. When the pail was full -- and nary a drop was he going  
to leave for that vicious monster, that much was certain! -- Gillecomgain  
left the barn and pulled the door shut behind him.  
  
* *  
  
**1020 A.D.  
Castle Moray  
  
** MacBeth stared hopelessly into the darkness that stretched  
seemingly forever down to the hard earth. Moments ago, his father had  
been alive and vital, fending off a masked attacker with only a serving  
tray. Then he had fallen, spinning into the shadows, and MacBeth knew he  
was gone forever.  
He heard Gruoch calling for him. He turned in time to see his  
father's killer about to strike.  
Then came a fleeting shadow, a rush of wings, and the man in the  
mask was snatched away from MacBeth. Flesh thudded on stone as the  
man slammed into the wall with a pained groan.  
It was a gargoyle. A young female, with skin like ivory and long  
flowing brown hair that floated around her in the rising wind. Her eyes  
glowed the orange-red of coals, and the moon shone through the thin  
membranes of her wings.  
Not choosy about his allies in this, a matter of revenge, MacBeth  
seized up his sword and raced to join the fray. Above, he heard Bodie  
shouting for his daughter, telling her that it was too dangerous, and he  
realized that lovely, clever Gruoch was coming to his aid.  
It was a night for being defended by maidens, it seemed. For the  
gargoyle, although she fought with cunning and skill, had the look about  
her of a lass not more than sixteen.  
He wasn't concerned about blemishes to his pride. All that  
mattered was the killer.  
With that thought in mind, he charged. The man disarmed him,  
threw him. MacBeth struck the battlement and went over. Too terrified to  
scream, he flailed for and caught hold even as his sword spun along the  
path his father had taken. Down, gone.  
Clinging, feeling his fingers go first white-hot with tension and  
then so numb they might have become stone themselves, he could only see  
torch-thrown shadows on the walls above him. And then hands reaching,  
clasping. Gruoch.  
Just then, his grip slipped, and his sole lifeline was the small girl  
who struggled to pull him to safety. He realized with horror that he was  
about to take her with him, and that seemed the greatest of injustices in  
this night's long list. He, perhaps, deserved his fate, for presuming to  
attack an armed killer many years his senior, but did poor Gruoch, who  
had only tried to save him?  
He saw the terror in her bright green eyes, felt her weight shift.  
Now she was belly-down across the thick block of stone, her slippered feet  
waving as she fought for purchase and found none.  
Then, incredibly, she stopped. Another face appeared beside  
hers, the face of a gargoyle closer than either of them had ever seen. Her  
soft brown hair mingled with Gruoch's glorious red. Her hand, as dainty  
and feminine as Gruoch's, found MacBeth's forearm.  
A pull, a clawing scramble on his part, and he was up. He sank  
down, every sense vividly thankful for the feel of solidity beneath him as  
he put his back to the battlement. Gruoch, now sobbing in relief, threw  
herself against him.  
The gargoyle stood over them. Of the killer, there was no sign.  
He had vanished like an eddy of smoke. MacBeth heard Gruoch's father  
anxiously calling his daughter's name. Heard the guardsmen, alerted by  
the fight. But those sounds seemed very far away, as he and the girl in his  
arms looked up at their rescuer.  
"Thank you," Gruoch said softly.  
MacBeth had never seen such a mingling of sorrow and  
wistfulness on any being. For a moment he thought the gargoyle might  
weep, and never had he heard of such a thing. She seemed about to speak,  
but only the lost sound of a lonely soul emerged before she spun away, as  
if ashamed to show her pain.  
  
* *  
  
Elektra's tears turned the night a stormy blur of black and grey.  
She had not wept once in the two years since she had left her  
clan. Since that shocking fateful night when she'd found her father's book.  
Her father. Prince Malcolm.  
The words had burned from the page to sear her eyes. She had  
wished for understanding, and found it a thousand times worse than  
ignorance had been. Now she _knew_ why she fit in with neither her clan  
nor her family. She was not Katherine's daughter but her half-sister, not a  
true gargoyle but the fluke product of a dalliance that should never have  
been.  
That knowledge had marked a brand upon her soul, made her  
unable to face any of them. They would but have to take one look at her  
face and would know that she harbored some terrible secret. And then the  
truth would be known, the truth that would destroy them all.  
And so she had left, in secret and unnoticed, without a farewell.  
Better that way.  
Malcolm's book she carried with her. If it had been found once,  
it might be found again, and she could not have that happen. Instead, she'd  
left a letter, begging them not to worry and not to search, saying that she  
had gone to find her place in the world and might someday return. It had  
been a lie, that last, but one not meant to harm.  
Even then, she had not wept. Not even earlier this night, when  
she had sat upon a hillside overlooking Castle Moray, taking bittersweet  
solace in the memories of another castle.  
She had been roused from her piteous state by the combat that  
had suddenly spilled onto the balcony. Roused, and spurred to investigate  
by a protective urge she had thought long withered.  
For that short time, she had been relieved of her worries and of  
troublesome _thought_. She had a purpose, a task. To protect the castle,  
even if it was not her own.  
But after, it had been the kindness in the young humans' eyes that  
had brought her to tears and compelled her to flee. Weapons, she could  
fight. Kindness, she could not. If she yielded to it, she might befriend the  
lad and his love. And then, when they learned the truth, she would be  
bereft anew.  
"No more weeping," she now told herself sternly.  
And it worked.  
For a time.  
  
* *  
  
**Meanwhile, at Edinburgh Castle ...  
  
** A gold seal on a gold chain rang on the wooden table where it  
was cast.  
"Findleach, High Steward of Moray, is dead."  
Prince Duncan grinned coldly in satisfaction. "And my cousin,  
MacBeth?"  
"He lives." The killer stripped off his plain black mask. Beneath  
was a handsome face that would have been regal save for the cruel sneer  
to his mouth. His hair was dark and shaggy, his eyes bright blue.  
"Why?"  
"Because, oh prince, he was aided by a gargoyle."  
Duncan regarded his ally with evaluating hesitation. Reaghan's  
father Constantine had only held his stolen throne for two years, barely  
long enough to get a son upon his queen, Finella. Reaghan knew that he  
would never rule Scotland and seemed, therefore, content to serve the one  
who would. But he would bear watching. His blood and bearing made him  
a proud man, one who did not bow well to others. Yet Reaghan and  
Duncan both knew that his striking back would only earn him a quick  
death. Better to glean what favor he could.  
And, gargoyles or no, MacBeth alive or no, Reaghan had served  
him well this night.  
"For this, I grant you the stewardship of Moray," Duncan  
declared.  
  
* *  
  
**1032 A.D.  
Castle Moray  
  
** A gargoyle sat on a dark hillside, balanced between two worlds.  
Behind her was the rugged and rocky terrain where she knew  
other gargoyles to lair. Mostly outcasts, clanless wanderers like herself,  
who eked out a life on what they could gather and scrounge. She met with  
them from time to time, shared what she could. Gradually, they were  
coming to trust her, to listen to her when she told them where they might  
find food.  
Before her was order and plenty. Safety and warmth. A castle.  
Elektra sighed, resting her elbows on her drawn-up knees and  
gazing at the lit windows. Her travels had taken her many places in the  
past dozen years, but she always felt drawn to return here, like a moth to  
a flame.  
How good it had felt to be in a castle again! Even for only a  
moment! In the company of good people -- for she believed that they were  
good; it would not do to think otherwise. She had preferred to believe that  
she had saved two lives, two young lovers who might one day find true  
happiness together.  
Now she had returned to find it was not so. Rather than MacBeth,  
the youth who had so valiantly tried to avenge his father that long-ago  
night, a man named Reaghan had been awarded stewardship of Moray.  
And he had even gained the Lady Gruoch for his wife.  
Elektra found herself deeply saddened by this news. She paid  
attention to the goings-on of humans, eavesdropping whenever she could.  
It had been in a tree outside of an alehouse where she had first  
heard the hauntingly lovely song of Goliath, recognizing her siblings  
Laertes and Deborah in the music even though it was played and voiced by  
a human. And it had been in that selfsame tree that she'd learned of the  
promise of Gruoch's hand.  
Her upbringing gave her an understanding of the ways human  
society, human nobility, functioned. So, while saddened, she was not  
terribly surprised. Love often took second place to politics when it came to  
noble marriages.  
She wondered what had become of young MacBeth. He was said  
to still live within the walls of Moray, still well-loved by his people. Yet  
he had not fought for what was his, not run away with his beloved.  
Perhaps he realized, as Elektra did, that to do so would only invite their  
doom. She knew what it was to be without a home, and would not wish  
that upon anyone.  
Even as she thought of him, she saw him, and sat straighter on  
the hill. Although their meeting had been brief, although he had grown to  
manhood, she knew him at once. But what was he doing, skulking about  
the high parapets with a drawn sword?  
Her gaze shifted, and she noticed the form of a woman in a blue  
gown. The Lady Gruoch, so it must be, for that length of red hair was like  
a beacon in the night. Then a man appeared, and Elektra gasped. Just as  
she recognized MacBeth, so too did she recognize this man.  
Oh, could it be? Could the world be so deviously cruel? The  
selfsame murderer who had slain MacBeth's father, now taking his place  
in both his castle and his marriage bed? Why had MacBeth allowed it?  
Could it be that he did not know?  
If he did not know before, he knew now. That much, she  
determined from his stealthy presence here. He came with the purpose of  
revenge.  
Once again, Elektra stood and spread her wings. If MacBeth had  
unfinished business this night, so too did she.  
What an eerie repetition! she thought as she joined the battle.  
They had all aged -- before, she had appeared a few years older than  
MacBeth and Gruoch, while now the reverse was true -- but the players  
were all the same.  
But there were some differences. This time it was a freestanding  
torch-brazier that plunged to the dark earth below. This time, MacBeth  
fought with righteous wrath instead of grief-torn fury. And Gruoch, rather  
than checking MacBeth's fall, was the one to teeter precariously until he  
pulled her back.  
Elektra saw right away that her skills had not kept pace with her  
growth. Her training seemed so very long ago, in another life. When she'd  
first faced this masked foe, she had been only two years removed from her  
clan, still with all Goliath's teachings fresh in her mind. Now, a dozen  
years and very few battles later, she had forgotten much. While her  
opponent had devoted himself to the art of combat.  
So it was that when he lunged at her, she misstepped, and they  
both went over the wall. She clawed at the stone, shrieking as her  
fingernails bent and tore. She'd never been able to punch them into the  
stone the way her siblings did, not without suffering.  
A ridge, no more than a lip where the stone had been improperly  
placed, stopped her fall. Her raw and abraded fingers clutched, nearly  
slipped free as her foe's arms cinched around her legs. His weight  
slammed them both against the wall.  
Her tortured fingers let go.  
MacBeth's hand seized her wrist.  
Now they were suspended like a scale of fate, Elektra and  
Reaghan below, MacBeth and Gruoch above.  
She whipped her tail, striking Reaghan a bleeding line across the  
face. He cried out and lost his grip, and his cry turned into a receding wail  
of horror as he dropped.  
MacBeth and Gruoch brought Elektra to the balcony. She leaned  
against a battlement, cradling her wounded hand. Then looked at them,  
and with the first smile that had touched her lips in a long time, gave back  
the words that Gruoch had once given her.  
"Thank you."  
"I owed you," MacBeth replied.  
Once again, the kindness. And once again, her fear rising like a  
clamoring beast, telling her that she must not give in, must not trust and  
care and have it all taken away from her.  
"Then we're even," she said, and took her leave before either of  
them could call her back.  
Over the next several nights, she secretly but frequently paid  
visits to the villages surrounding Moray, and kept a close watch on the  
castle itself. The news she heard pleased her greatly. MacBeth was now  
High Steward, and wasted no time making Gruoch his wife.  
The happy ending. A bit delayed, but at last, all was well.   
* *  
  
**1040 A.D.  
Near Castle Moray  
  
** The sun was getting quite low, and Duncan wished he had been  
able to hurry this along. No matter. Enough daylight remained to get the  
job done. He would be rid of the gargoyles, and MacBeth would be none  
the wiser.  
The gall of him, presuming to order his king! Oh, he had phrased  
it as a request, polite enough, "I beg you, spare them," along with some  
rubbish about how humans and gargoyles had once fought side by side.  
But polite as it had been, it had still been defiance.  
MacBeth puzzled Duncan. All this day, he'd been mulling over  
the events that had taken place on this barren, rocky path. If MacBeth  
truly was a traitor, why save Duncan from a fall that would surely have  
killed him? But if MacBeth was in truth loyal, why had that old bedlam,  
the crazed crone they'd come upon in the fog-swept moors, made those  
prophecies of kings and fathers of kings?  
"He fancies the crown for himself," Duncan told himself as he  
led his men toward the shallow cave. "I'll be rid of him, just as I was rid  
of his father. But first, these monsters!" MacBeth would not have their aid  
in the coming battle!  
Although the day was fast dying by the time they reached the  
cave, he ordered his men to take up their weapons and destroy the  
gargoyles. He himself struck the first blow, cracking a horned head from  
broad shoulders.  
His men joined in, some hesitantly, others whooping jovially. But  
then the sun slipped beneath the horizon, and the few remaining gargoyles  
came awake in a shower of stone.  
The female's eyes flared bright, and she gasped as she saw  
Duncan's mace about to descend. She ducked under it and swept her tail  
like a whip. It stung his ankles even through his thick boots, rendering him  
enough off-balance so that when she pushed past him, he landed not only  
on his backside but in a pile of festering refuse.  
"Demon!" he shouted, shaking his fists at her as she fled. "I'll  
see your kind destroyed for this!"  
The few survivors followed the female, spreading their wings as  
they leapt from the path.  
Duncan ran to the edge, still shouting furiously, but none of them  
looked back. All he heard by way of reply was one male's aggrieved  
complaint, "The hunting was good there!" and the female's stricken  
response: "And we were the prey!"  
  
* *  
  
MacBeth rode through the mist, knowing he was riding to his  
death.  
Duncan, his cousin and king, marching on him with armies! What  
cause had he ever given Duncan to fear him? It had to be a mistake, a  
misunderstanding.  
It was his father-in-law Bodie's hope that, by MacBeth's  
surrender, Duncan might be moved to spare Gruoch and young Luach.  
And so MacBeth set out on his lonely journey, hoping for that promise at  
the very least, even if he was unable to convince his cousin of his loyalty.  
But as the miles unrolled behind him, he was surprised to find  
himself giving in to anger. What right had Duncan to make this  
unwarranted attack? Was not MacBeth's lifelong service worth at least an  
explanation?  
If Duncan was so incensed as to do this at all, he would surely  
accept MacBeth's surrender and execute him. He would go to his grave  
never knowing why. That was intolerable. He could not leave Gruoch a  
widow, Luach fatherless, for no reason!  
Perhaps he should turn back, rally his men, make Duncan _earn  
_the right to his head.  
But even as he thought it, his hopes sank. Bodie was right. His  
men were brave and true, but no match for the king's own army. If only  
there was some other way ...  
Movement caught his eye and he turned sharply, seeing a pale  
shadow in the fog. "You!"  
It was the female gargoyle of the ivory skin, the one he'd come to  
think of as his guardian angel. Had she been human, he would have  
guessed her age at thirty, when she had seemed a maid of fifteen at their  
first meeting twenty years before. And still, apart from Gruoch, the  
loveliest creature he'd ever beheld.  
Her eyes widened at being seen, and in the furtive flush of her  
cheeks he realized she had been following him. Still looking after him. But  
she hastily made to flee.  
"Wait!" MacBeth cried, running to catch up with her before the  
fog closed her from his sight. If this was not a sign from the heavens, he  
didn't know what would be. "You are the answer!"  
She turned and regarded him warily. "And what might the  
question be?"  
"Duncan, my king and kinsman, attacks me. He thinks me a  
traitor! _Me_! When I have never been anything but loyal to him! I need  
your help to defend my land."  
"I cannot help you," she said, looking down at her hands as they  
twined in the folds of her tunic.  
"Bring your gargoyles! Join my forces!"  
"They are not my gargoyles, MacBeth of Moray. I am not fit to  
lead a clan. They are outcasts like myself, and only listen to me because I  
can tell them where best to find food."  
He stepped closer, took her by the upper arms. "Then tell them I  
have food, theirs for the eating if they'll just help us against Duncan's  
army! My people will _die_ if you do not!"  
She voiced a sigh that was very nearly a sob. "Would that I could  
tell you the lives of humans meant nothing to me. Would that I could tell  
you I care nothing for protecting a castle."  
"I'd know better. Please. I cannot do this alone."  
"The other gargoyles may be convinced to join your cause. They  
may do so for revenge; your enemy is theirs as well, for Duncan and his  
men came to our hideaway while we slept, and now we are fewer."  
"He would have done so sooner, had I not stopped him."  
MacBeth told her what had happened that day. "I have finally repaid my  
debt to you. Now I would bargain. Help me. There must be something  
you want."  
"I am weary of this fugitive life," she said heavily. "I am weary  
of wandering, of never feeling safe. I should like just once to greet the  
dawn knowing that I will awaken to greet the night."  
"There could have been a place for you at my castle years ago.  
You are welcome in our home, for so long as it is ours."  
He held out his hand. She hesitated, then clasped it. "Thank you,  
MacBeth."  
"No, thank you ... have you a name?"  
"Elektra."  
  
* *  
  
**1057 A.D.  
  
** "He plans to betray us!" announced the grey-skinned gargoyle  
who was vain about his horns.  
The other wingleader males -- the small wiry russet-hued one, the  
barrel-chested dark blue one, the tall quiet brown one -- turned toward  
him as he landed.  
Elektra looked up from her map, where she'd been marking the  
locations of Canmore's troops.  
Hard to believe the boy had come back. She still remembered the  
final battle, or so she had thought it to be then. Duncan's fiery death when  
MacBeth, sword broken, warded off the murderous king with a torch.  
Canmore, captured but defiant to the last. He'd even drawn a knife, the  
foolish child. She had stopped him, advised him not to throw away his life  
that MacBeth had so graciously spared.  
Now Canmore was back, full-grown and leading an army,  
meaning to retake what he felt was his by birthright.  
And she, Elektra, headed a clan more than a hundred strong.  
Only two had survived to stand with her at MacBeth's victory  
celebration, when he had been crowned High King and declared the  
beginning of a golden age for all their clans, human and gargoyle alike.  
But other outcasts had learned of this, and a couple of small clans  
threatened by war, and gradually over the years they had built up until  
they were many and prosperous.  
These four males were her best warriors, perhaps not the  
brightest things on wings, but each commanded his own battalion. She still  
considered herself nothing but an advisor, MacBeth's and theirs, but  
somehow she had come to be regarded as something like a queen.  
News of the golden age had even traveled to Castle Wyvern, and  
although none of the gargoyles here at Moray were of that clan, tentative  
messages of goodwill had passed between Elektra and her rookery brother,  
Jericho. Someday, when the war was done, she would return to the place  
of her childhood and make her confessions, make her peace.  
But with just those five words, they grey-skinned one put all of  
that in jeopardy.  
She stood, wiping ink from her hands. "What mean you? Who  
will betray us?"  
"MacBeth!" he spat. "I heard him myself! The old man told him  
that Canmore's allies fight because he has filled their heads with tales of  
monsters! If MacBeth were rid of us, the English would have no cause to  
fight, and might withdraw! And so, to save himself and the humans, he  
will betray us!"  
"He would never do such a thing," Elektra said surely.  
"You know how gargoyles have been treated in England," the  
blue-skinned one reminded her.  
She nodded automatically. Many of their clan had come from that  
country, fleeing violent persecution against the "demons."  
"This is how he thanks us for all these years of loyalty?" the  
russet one snarled.  
"No!" Elektra strode into their midst. "He would not! The  
English have come this far already. They would not turn back from  
MacBeth's doorstep even if he _did_ rid himself of us. So he would not,  
even were he tempted. He is our friend! I will go and speak to him."  
"You do that," the grey one sneered. "Don't think we don't know  
how you feel for him."  
She gasped. "What said you?"  
"Wasn't I loud enough? Should I roar it from the high tower?  
You're blinded with love for MacBeth, and you'll lead us to doom for it!"  
"We've known it for twenty years at least," the brown one said in  
his low, quiet voice.  
"It is not like that!" Elektra whispered, but it was.  
"We'll not give him the chance to betray us," the blue-skinned  
one growled. He had petitioned vigorously for Elektra as his mate, and  
been denied. If they did think it was because of MacBeth ...  
"Let the English come or not, then," the russet one said  
indifferently. "Without us, Canmore's troops will trample him into the  
earth. And I say good riddance!"  
"You cannot leave!" Elektra cried. "You're needed! What of the  
castle? What of the humans?"  
"What of them? A castle is just a pile of stone, which is what  
we'd be if we stayed. As for the humans --" the grey one snapped his  
talons in her face. "_That_ for the humans."  
She stared in denial and disbelief as they collected their  
belongings. "Do not do this! We're to _protect_ ..."  
The brown one paused as the others headed out. He regarded her  
sadly. "You forget, Elektra. We were outcasts from our clans. We had no  
reason to care." He shook his head and followed the others.  
"MacBeth needs us!"  
They did not reply, and she knew she could not stop them. And  
the others would follow them, not her, because she had been so careful to  
distance herself from direct command lest they realize she was not truly  
one of them.  
"No ..." she sank to the stones and covered her face. Her  
prudence, her fear, would be their undoing.  
Then she rose, resolute. She would not yield. She had to at least  
try. Wasn't she just thinking that they saw her as something akin to a  
queen? Very well! She would see, then, if they would listen!  
  
* *  
  
"What news of Elektra?" MacBeth demanded as the injured  
sentry staggered onto the balcony.  
"The gargoyles ... have ... deserted," the man gasped.  
"What?!" He whirled, dumbfounded, and stared over the  
battlefield as if he could make the absent winged forces appear just by  
being _sure_ they would be there.  
It could not be! Only last night, Elektra had come to him with  
news of how her gargoyles had very nearly routed Canmore's army. They  
had rejoiced together that soon, _soon_ the fighting would be done. In his  
exuberance, he'd lifted her, swung her in a circle until her white-streaked  
hair flared like a banner. They had laughed together, and he had nearly  
told her then how much she had come to mean to him.  
And now they were gone? Deserted?  
Luach's reinforcements would not arrive in time to save the  
castle. Already, the catapults and siege towers were rumbling toward him.  
Already, the sky was filling with flaming balls of pitch. His soldiers were  
falling in droves. Many, nay, _most_ died searching the heavens for the  
reprieve, the deliverance they had come to rely on.  
His castle was burning, his army in shambles.  
Gruoch!  
He ran for her chambers, finding his way nearly blocked by  
burning beams. Above the crackle and roar, he could hear her desperate  
pleas, calling for him.  
The door gave way on the second kick, and he found her huddled  
in a corner. Together, coughing against the choking thick smoke, they fled  
to the secret escape route that brought them up in the creek. Now they  
were drenched, Gruoch shivering uncontrollably, her long grey hair  
spilling over her like a stole.  
"Our home ..." she said through chattering teeth.  
"Has fallen," MacBeth finished.  
"What of Luach?"  
"He'll be well."  
They climbed into the hills beyond the castle, leaving behind the  
screams of men and horses. Gruoch could barely keep up, until MacBeth  
was nearly carrying her.  
"The gargoyles?" she asked as they stopped in the shelter of a  
large rocky outcrop to catch their breath.  
"Gone," he replied, unable to say more, choked by the futile  
frustration that rose in his throat.  
"All gone," Elektra confirmed, stepping out from behind a  
boulder. "All gone, all dead."  
"Elektra!" He spun to look up at her, and her expression struck  
him like a slap. He had never seen such a haunted and tormented visage,  
not even when viewing his own in the mirror following his father's  
murder, or Gruoch's first marriage. "Why?! We've been friends for  
thirty-seven years! Why did you leave?"  
"I tried to stop them." She sobbed once, then pushed back her  
hair and met his eyes. "They said you planned to betray us, the better to  
hurt Canmore by undermining the support of the English. And so they left.  
I went after them, pleaded with them. And some did begin to hear me, to  
believe. But dawn was near, and I saw ... I saw men approaching in  
hiding. Canmore's men, the very English allies who so despised us from  
the first. They had followed the gargoyles. And dawn ... dawn came."  
"No," MacBeth breathed. "The clan?"  
"Destroyed." She bowed her head, and her shoulders shook.  
"Battered to bits as they slept in stone, just as my birth clan's parents  
were. I saw it happen, MacBeth, I saw it all. I knew that if I turned to  
stone as well, I too would be shattered. None would be left to come to  
you. To tell you what had happened and why. So, when day came, I  
resisted. And oh! the sun was so warm, so beautiful!"  
"Why did the others not do the same?" asked Gruoch.  
"They had not my secret." Elektra seemed to curl in on herself,  
fearful of the admission even as she made it. "They were none of them  
half-human. When all else seemed lost, I so bitterly wished ... and  
somehow, found this last gift from Malcolm my father." She looked  
beseechingly at them. "I would never desert you!"  
"And I would never betray you," MacBeth said. Malcolm?  
Malcolm of Wyvern, it must be. His own distant kinsman.  
Just then, Gruoch nudged him, and in her face she saw  
understanding and acceptance. Go to her, she silently urged. She had  
known, possibly even before MacBeth admitted it to himself. Women had  
ways of knowing such things.  
He went to Elektra and touched her hair, stroked the white blaze  
that ran back from her temple. They had all grown old, the three of them.  
"Because of me, your kingdom is in flames," she said in a low  
voice.  
"Because of you, I had a kingdom at all. We built this together."  
"And you will die together," Canmore said as if he'd been  
waiting all this while for the perfect moment at which to make his  
appearance.  
Before MacBeth could turn, before Gruoch could do more than  
begin to utter a stifled scream, the black-haired son of Duncan lunged and  
drove his sword at MacBeth's back.  
Elektra swept him aside with such force that MacBeth fell to one  
knee. The blade missed him, and slid between her ribs.  
"No!" MacBeth, horror-stricken, rose and drew and struck all in  
one fluid motion. He disarmed Canmore, sending his sword flying, and  
hammered his elbow into the younger man's temple. Canmore's grin had  
only barely begun to surface before his face went slack and he toppled.  
Elektra swayed slightly, both hands pressed to her chest. "Ohhh,"  
she said softly, like a woman who just realized she had committed some  
grave social misstep. She turned her palms up and stared  
uncomprehendingly at the blood upon them. Her knees buckled and she  
began a slow, swooning fall.  
MacBeth caught her. Never had he thought she could be so  
heavy! Never had he thought her skin would be so coarse! Pallor gave her  
a greyish tinge.  
No, not pallor. That was not what made her skin turn grey, her  
limbs grow heavy, her skin grow coarse. He had seen enough gargoyles  
fall over the past twenty years to know approaching death when he saw it.  
She rested in his arms, taking air in shallow sips, but already a  
stiff lethargy was seeping into her body.  
"Elektra ..."  
"You know," she whispered, "how I feel."  
"How we both feel," he said, his heart nearly breaking.  
She nodded, smiled. He leaned down and brushed his lips across  
her brow. Then a fine tremble went through her, and he held a statue that  
was already beginning to erode into dust.  
"So it's not true!" Canmore mumbled thickly, incredulous.  
Rubbing his head, he hitched himself up on one elbow. "'Twas said you  
were linked by sorcery, so that when one died, both die!"  
"I'm afraid you'll find it's not that easy," MacBeth growled,  
picking up his sword. "On your feet, Canmore. I'll not stab you in the  
back like a coward, but I will cut you down where you lay if you fail to  
rise!"  
"MacBeth, no!" the weeping Gruoch implored.  
"It ends tonight," Canmore said, getting up and retrieving his  
own sword. "One way or the other." Now the grin he'd lost came back, as  
several of his men appeared through the trees. "But I have a fair idea  
which way it will go!"  
"Luach's reinforcements are almost upon us," one of the men told  
Canmore.  
"Let them come. My _cousin_ won't arrive in time to find  
anything but his father's body."  
"We'll see about _that_!" MacBeth attacked, and his last battle  
was on.  
  
* *  
  
  
**_EPILOGUE -- REPERCUSSIONS  
  
_1944 A.D.  
London, England  
  
** "Oh, Griff!" Una wept, burying her face in her hands to shut out  
the sight of his broken, bullet-riddled body. "Why did you have to be so  
brave?"  
  
* *  
  
**1975 A.D.  
Bar Harbor, Maine  
  
** "Mail's here, Dave!"  
David Xanatos straightened up, groaning as his back unkinked. It  
had been a good day's catch, but by the time he got the boat squared  
away, he would be more than ready for a hot shower and then bed.  
A year ago, he'd thought his life was finally changing for the  
better. A strange encounter on an island out in the Atlantic had given him  
a taste of adventure, not to mention introduced him to the most amazing  
girl he'd ever met.  
But here he was, still stuck in his father's world of ships and nets  
and where the good schools were hiding in the cold northern waters. He'd  
been working his butt off all year to try and pay for the Nereid, the ship  
that had been lost during that same series of events.  
"Ayuh?" he asked the mailman. "Anything good?"  
"Here you go."  
David took the stack of envelopes. Dad, Dad, Occupant, Dad ...  
aha! One for him!  
"Wonder what this is." He tore it open with his work-callused  
fingers and unfolded the thick sheet of paper. There was a coin taped to  
the bottom, bronze in color and stamped with an unfamiliar design.  
"Grand Opening," he read. "Bar Harbor Arcade and Video Game  
Palace. Bring this token for one free game! The latest and hottest in 3-D  
arcade action!"  
Shaking his head, he tossed the advertisement into a nearby trash  
barrel and returned to the ship, the nets, his life.  
* *  
  
**1976 A.D.  
Scotland  
  
** Eibhlin Driscoll climbed to the highest tower, stopping to  
examine each of the grotesque stone figures and wondering again what her  
son could have found about them that was so fascinating. Frightening,  
more like. But then, that was the point, wasn't it? To frighten away evil  
spirits by making images that looked even more evil?  
From here, the sea, the hated sea that had stolen her husband and  
then returned him as a blue and bloated _thing_, stretched endlessly on in  
dull grey ripples. She could see the pebbled beach that huddled in a  
crescent cove far below.  
Was that a boat? Some sort of wooden boat pulled up on the  
beach?  
With nothing better to do, she found the path and made her way  
down, not being overly careful. If the sea wanted her, it would take her.  
Soon she was close enough to see the object.  
Not a boat after all. Just a large twist of driftwood that from a  
distance resembled a boat. And surely, to her Galen, that's what his  
imagination would have made of it. She could almost hear him laughing as  
he played, fighting mock sea-battles and searching for sunken treasures.  
The wind, hooting in the water-worn hollows. Like the laughter  
of her dear, dead son. Like the whistling of her lost husband.  
She looked out at the cold, cold sea.  
If it wanted her, it would take her.  
But she could meet it halfway.  
She unwound her shawl and folded it neatly, draping it over the  
driftwood that was not a boat. And then, without a glance back, Eibhlin  
Driscoll waded into the sea.  
  
* *  
  
**1985 A.D.  
Irvine, California  
  
** One of the most beautiful campuses in the country, Kenneth  
Ferguson thought as he glanced out the window and away from the pile of  
papers he was supposed to be grading. If I ever had kids, I'd want them to  
go someplace like this. Or maybe someplace back East.  
He grinned at his own foolishness. Kids? Him? There were  
certain prerequisites to having kids, not least of which was having a wife.  
Well, not necessarily, he supposed in this modern age. But he prided  
himself on being an old-fashioned man, and was looking for a suitably old-  
fashioned girl.  
Unfortunately, when one happened to be a professor of medieval  
history, one's idea of what passed for an old-fashioned girl was rather  
different from that of other people. For them, June Cleaver was about as  
far as they'd go. For him, Eleanor of Acquitaine was more the thing.  
He chuckled. So all he needed to do was find a way to go back in  
time. Perhaps to the Scottish castle he'd visited almost ten years ago. Yes,  
back in time, find himself a nice noble-born lady. Raise up a few fine  
strong lads or a lass to spoil. A daughter he could name Aiden, after his  
grandmother.  
Shaking his head, laughing at himself, Kenneth Ferguson went  
back to work.  
  
* *  
  
**1989 A.D.  
Seattle, Washington.  
  
** "So the old man's dead." Graeme Wulfstan, known as the Grey  
Wolf in pro wrestling circles, didn't sound all that broken up about it.  
"What'd he leave me?"  
"Some furniture, two cats, a bank account that should just about  
cover the cost of the burial, and this." The lawyer slid a box across the  
table.  
Wulfstan opened the box, pinched a corner of the floral-patterned  
silk scarf like he was peeling up something yucky stuck to his shoe. "This  
belong to my great-aunt?" When the lawyer didn't reply, he lifted it and  
unwrapped it.  
The office lights ran in dazzling circles around the milky blue  
jewel nestled in a swirl of thick gold. Wulfstan's bushy brows went almost  
to his shaggy hairline.  
"What is it?"  
"It's called the Eye of Odin. The Nordic Heritage Museum here  
in Ballard has offered it a place of honor in their exhibit hall."  
"Screw that!" Wulfstan closed his massive fist around the gem.  
"Donate it to a museum? Do you think I'm nuts? This thing is worth a  
fortune!"  
  
* *  
  
**Clippings:  
  
**_From The Seattle Times, 1989:  
_ No Further Wolf Attacks  
Marysville, WA -- a series of brutal livestock deaths and  
mutilations seems to have come to an end, much to the relief of farmers in  
this normally quiet town. Evidence found at the scenes led authorities to  
believe the animals were the victims of a wolf pack, although lab results  
are pending. The last known attack was two weeks ago. It is likely that the  
pack was driven off by increased vigilance. Several farmers claim to have  
shot at "something," but no wolf bodies have been found.  
  
_From VIP Magazine, 1990:  
_ The Magic Is Over  
Together, they wove illusions to baffle even the greatest  
magicians of all time. David Copperfield admitted in a 1988 interview that  
even he was unable to figure out how the spectacular team of Lyonnes and  
Fox worked their stunning magic. He, and the rest of us, will never have  
another chance to try. The team, partners since 1985, have announced that  
they are going their separate ways ...  
  
* *  
  
**1990 A.D.  
Castle Wyvern, Scotland.  
  
** "Chronos, look!" Aodh exclaimed. "It's a man!"  
"I _know_ it's a man," the older, portly gargoyle said in an  
aggravated tone.  
"No, don't you see?" his golden-skinned companion said  
excitedly. "He's the one! The one to break the spell!"  
They fell silent, trusting to the shadows of their high perch to  
conceal them, as the man passed by. Then they turned away from the  
castle, and headed for their cave.  
The cave had housed the descendants of Clan Wyvern ever since  
humans stopped believing in gargoyles and forced them to go into hiding  
or be hunted down. It was comfortable, close enough to let them keep  
watch on the castle and their ancestors who still slept in stone. Most  
importantly, it was safe.  
The plump female called Kettle was washing up the dishes from  
the clan's supper when her son scampered into the cave.  
"Mama, Mama, there's a man in the castle!"  
"No more stories, Chip --" his father had proudly told anyone and  
everyone that he was a chip off the old block, and it had stuck -- "into the  
tub with you." She picked him up and plopped him into the warm, soapy  
water.  
"Isn't it exciting?!" Feather fluttered into the kitchen showing off  
her black and grey wings. "I saw a man in the castle!"  
Chip popped up, bubbles on his head, and squirted a stream of  
water out of his mouth. "See, Mama, I _told_ you!"  
  
* *  
  
**1990 A.D.  
Castle Wyvern, Scotland.  
  
** "... and we've been having trouble finding workers. The castle is  
reputed to be haunted," the stiff, humorless assistant finished.  
"Pay a man enough, Mr. Vogel, and he'll walk barefoot into  
Hell," Halcyon Renard said, adjusting the controls of his motorized  
wheelchair to steer his withered body closer to the vine-laden stones of  
Castle Wyvern.  
Preston Vogel inclined his head in acceptance of the older man's  
wisdom, and made a few phone calls. Within a matter of hours, the crews  
were fully staffed, the large machinery was chugging and snarling, and the  
project was underway.  
  
* *  
  
**1994 A.D.  
Manhattan  
  
** "Enemy invasion, yeah, right," Elisa Maza muttered to herself as  
the elevator doors began to close.  
Halcyon Renard's arrogance aside, no enemy invasion or robotic  
malfunction could account for the chunk of claw-marked stone she'd found  
in the street below.  
Cop instinct told her that the old man and bland-faced assistant  
were lying through their teeth. She had made all the right replies, let them  
think they were conning her. Vogel had showed her to the elevator and she  
thanked him for his cooperation.  
She hit the button, and the doors slid back open. Vogel was gone.  
She was alone in the castle's dark and gloomy halls.  
Why would anyone want to live like this? Everything else Renard  
produced was ultra-modern and state-of-the-art. Lasers, cybernetics, the  
stuff of the future. So why this sudden, unexplained fondness for ancient  
castles?  
"Maybe he's the original owner," she said to herself.  
She jumped at the sound of her own voice and realized she was  
working up a good case of the creeps. A hundred monster movie scenes  
shutter-clicked through her mind. Whenever she watched those, she would  
always scoff at the stupid heroine who would go, all by her lonesome, into  
the attic or down the cellar or off through the spooky forest. But here she  
was, doing just that.  
To top it all off, she was pretty sure she'd taken a wrong turn.  
Now she was in the section that Renard hadn't gotten around to fixing up  
yet. No lights. Dust, leftover from the move and the reconstruction. Her  
mind supplied cobwebs even though there weren't any to be seen.  
Something grunted and moved, just outside the beam of her  
flashlight. She swung it in that direction. Nothing. But a low, somehow  
slobbery breathing.  
A low-slung shadow. A growl.  
Gun in one hand, flashlight in the other.  
A beam of light splashing over a blue beast the size of a tank,  
coming right at her.  
Elisa sucked in a quick breath and pointed her gun at it.  
Another shadow loomed beside her. A large hand -- a three-  
fingered claw -- snatched the weapon from her grasp.  
She whirled, and there, not a foot away, was a creature right out  
of a bad dream. Batlike wings, luminescent white eyes. A bulky, muscular  
body with a long tail.  
It was between her and the hall. There was a staircase behind her  
and she started backing up it, feeling her way on the stone wall, never  
daring to look away as the creature relentlessly followed.  
The staircase let her out onto the roof. Open sky stretched above  
her. Wind pulled her hair like dark ribbons in front of her face. She  
continued sidling back as the creature emerged. Her breath whistled as if  
her throat had narrowed to a pinhole.  
Sudden space at her back. Startled, she leaned, and too late  
realized her mistake. The backs of her knees struck the lower edge of the  
crenelated wall, and she toppled over.  
Now her throat seemed wide as a train tunnel, and the scream  
that burst out of her was as loud as a siren.  
She closed her eyes to blot out the sight of the towers stretching  
away from her with terrifying speed. But in that internal darkness, her  
fear spiked to new levels.  
When she opened them again, she saw the creature coming after  
her. Closing the distance. Its claws reached for her. She was suddenly  
sure that it wasn't content to have her fall, that it had to first rend her to  
bits. Her flesh cringed in anticipation.  
Then she got a look at the creature's face, the horror and worry,  
and understood that it was trying to save her.  
Strong arms looped around her, and then she was being carried  
instead of falling. Still plunging toward the street, but with those wings  
now spread. Her stomach lurched sickeningly as they swooped low over  
the cars and crowds before beginning a climb.  
"Okay, okay, just stay calm," she told herself as the creature  
landed on a ledge and released her.  
"Lass, ye gave me a right proper scare," the creature said.  
The shock of hearing it speak nearly made her step off the edge.  
"You can talk! Who are you? What's your name?"  
It -- no, _he_ -- laughed and shook his greying, bearded head. "A  
thing's not real to ye humans until ye can name it, give it limits." He  
pointed. "Does the sky need a name? Does the river?"  
"Actually, the river's the Hudson."  
He sighed. "Aye, verra well, then I shall be the Hudson too."  
"Hudson it is." She grinned and held out her hand. "I'm Elisa  
Maza. Thanks for saving my life."   
* *  
  
The craft sped away from the castle, the disgruntled occupants  
rubbing their various aches and pains through the tough fabric of their  
dark grey Kevlar bodysuits. Helmets with red-tinted visors were removed  
and laid aside.  
Inge Runolf looked at Judge Halverson as if to say, "Well?" He  
resignedly got up approached the front of the craft where their boss was at  
the controls.  
"What the _hell_ were those things?" he demanded.  
"Does it matter?" she replied, sparing him only a brief glance.  
"You blew it."  
"You didn't tell us we'd be fighting _monsters_."  
"I told you to be ready for resistance." In the weird glow of the  
instrument panel, the painted foxhead around her eye resembled a pirate's  
patch.  
"Sure, from humans or robots!"  
"We'll just have to find another way to deal with Renard." Her  
silence made it clear that the conversation was at an end.  
Halverson weighed the options of continued debate, gave up, and  
returned to sit beside Runolf.  
"This is nuts," Glasses remarked from the other side of the  
compartment. "There are easier ways to get at the old man's money than  
attacking him in his castle."  
Fox heard him, and whipped around like a harridan with her  
firegold hair flying. "The data on those disks would have been worth more  
than all the hot cars, stolen weapons, and dimestore protection rackets  
your people pull off in a year! You and Dracon work for _me_ now, and  
don't you forget it!"  
The craft flew on, toward the endlessly cruising bulk of Fortress  
One.  
After they'd landed in the main hangar in the belly of the flying  
ship, Fox left her team and headed for the bridge. She pulled the  
rubberband from her hair and shook it loose.  
"Evenin', Ms. F," the guard at the door said.  
"Hi, Vinnie. Owen around?"  
"No, ma'am, haven't seen him."  
"If you do, tell him that I'm --"  
"Looking for him?" Owen Burnett finished, coming around a  
corner.  
  
* *  
  
"There's someone here I'd like you to meet." Halcyon Renard  
pressed a button on the armrest-mounted control panel of his wheelchair.  
Hudson and the others, who had chosen names of their own from  
the city they'd eagerly explored after repelling the previous night's assault,  
turned. All were wary, but curious.  
So far, their benefactor and Hudson's new friend Elisa had shown  
them wonders they never would have imagined. A city of millions, of  
lights and machines. Television. Strange weapons that were worse than  
Viking bows, worse than the magical blasts of the Archmage. What new  
amazement could this be?  
A door slid open, revealing a shadowed shape. It came forward  
into the light.  
"My love!" the female gargoyle cried, rushing into the room.  
Before the males could collect their jaws from their chests, she had her  
arms around Brooklyn and was kissing him soundly all over his beak.  
"What the --?" Broadway blurted.  
"Wow!" Lex chimed in.  
Bronx chuffed in surprise.  
"I ... swear ..." Brooklyn protested, his words stuttered because  
the female kept planting kisses while he was trying to talk, "... Hudson ...  
I've never ... seen her ... in my life!"  
She left off for a moment, and Brooklyn got a breath. "But I've  
seen you!" she said. "How I've waited for this! Aodh will be upset, but  
I've been burned by him before." She made as if to recommence with the  
kissing, but Hudson intervened.  
"Here, now, lass, give him some air! Who are ye? Where have  
ye come from?"  
Reluctantly, the female backed off and smoothed her short cap of  
jet-black hair behind a pair of cute horns. Her skin was maple, her caped  
wings made a sumptuous cloak of black and grey feathers. Beneath, she  
was clad in something of tight-fitting black satin that made Lex's eyes bug  
so much that Hudson feared the lad might hurt himself.  
"I'm called Feather," she said, and now Hudson heard the soft  
Scottish burr in her voice. "Of your clan!"  
"No way," Brooklyn said, shaking his head as he gave her a very  
appreciative once-over. "I would have remembered."  
"Me too," Broadway said. Lex could only gawk.  
"What is the meaning of this, Renard?" Hudson demanded.  
The old human rubbed his hands together with a dry, papery  
sound. He looked quite smug and pleased with himself. "As you know, I  
devoted my life to the pursuit of science, but as age and infirmity got their  
hold on me and science was not keeping pace with my declining health, I  
turned to other avenues of exploration."  
"Ye got interested in magic," Hudson said, nodding. "So ye told  
us."  
Feather took advantage of their conversation to sidle close to  
Brooklyn and sort of bump her shoulder and hip at him, all the while  
giving him a look she might give a pastry she was about to devour. The  
poor lad clearly did not know what to make of it, but was enjoying it all  
the same. Enjoying it so much that he wasn't paying attention. Hudson  
cleared his throat warningly.  
"Over the years, I collected many unusual items. The one thing  
that eluded me was a legendary book of spells, the Grimorum Arcanorum.  
It was while researching it that I learned about gargoyles. It seemed to me  
that if the story was true, I could once and for all prove to myself that  
magic existed."  
"So ye brought our castle here, to raise it above the clouds and  
see if the spell would be broken and we would live again."  
"Yes." Renard smiled at Feather. "I hadn't counted on an extra  
gargoyle as a stowaway."  
"Stowaway?" Brooklyn asked her. "But where'd you come  
from?"  
"My clan is descended from the eggs that were spared the attack  
of the Vikings. We've waited a thousand years for you to awaken. But  
none of us counted on the castle being moved! So I --" here she giggled  
deliciously, and Lex looked like he was trying to swallow a doorknob, "--  
hid in a crate, and was brought along."  
"For a time, I started to think the castle _was_ haunted," Renard  
said. "All during the reconstruction, the night watchmen would claim they  
had seen, or heard things."  
"It was just little me," she giggled again, tickling Brooklyn's tail  
with her own and making him jump. "Mr. Renard found me out, and after  
I told him who I was, he agreed to let me stay."  
"Why did you call Brooklyn 'my love'?" Broadway asked, not  
without a fair measure of envy.  
She blushed prettily. "I used to visit him every night, talk to him,  
pretend he was my sweetheart. Then, well, seeing him awake ... I was  
overcome."  
"Uh ... really?" Now Brooklyn was blushing.  
"Where's the rest of yer clan?" Hudson wanted to know.  
"Back in Scotland. We decided that only one of us should come."  
She explained the promise that had been handed down from one generation  
to the next, that should the sleepers ever awaken, there would be someone  
there to greet them.  
The weight of the time hadn't really hit Hudson until now. A  
thousand years. And all that while, his clan had kept them alive in their  
hearts and minds, passing on a tradition and holding fast to it.  
"What ever happened to Goliath?" Lex had finally recovered his  
wits enough to speak.  
"There's a song about him," she said brightly. "About him and  
his Angel. I learned it when I was just a hatchling. It's the most beautiful  
song!"  
"He ... he's dead," Broadway said. "I knew he had to be, but ..."  
Feather cocked her head, then her face twisted in dismay. "Oh,  
I'm sorry! For you, it was only a long sleep ago!"  
"Aye, but for ye, it was something that happened long before ye  
were hatched. Dinna be ashamed, lass. We understand."  
"Poor Goliath," Lex murmured.  
"Sing us your song," Brooklyn urged. "I think we'd all like to  
hear it."  
  
* *  
  
"Well, Sevarius?" Renard folded his hands and waited.  
"I've isolated the gene that makes the gargoyles age at a slower  
rate," Anton Sevarius said. "Convenient that the attempted hostile  
takeover by FoxFire Enterprises wounded the gargoyles enough to allow  
me to collect the necessary samples."  
"Can it be used on humans?" Renard leaned forward as much as  
his chair would permit.  
"It would take some work. Even if successful, though, it would  
only _retard_ further aging."  
Renard sank back and rubbed his brow. "That's not what I'm  
paying you for. I have enough longevity formulas. I need something to  
turn back the clock, not stop it."  
"I'm doing the best I can." Sevarius' voice oozed contrition.  
"Have you given any thought to reconsidering --"  
"Clones and mind transference?" Renard's face twisted in disgust.  
"No. I will not hear of it."  
"I've made some progress on the mutagenic agent --"  
"I thought I told you I wanted no further development along that  
line! I understand the trials of frustrated genius, _Doctor_, but I won't  
have you making monsters on company time."  
He turned away, but not so quickly that he missed the sour  
expression on Sevarius' face. He made a note to himself to be sure and  
soothe the temperamental scientist's ruffled feathers later. It wouldn't do  
to have Sevarius quit. His ... _competitor_ would snap up Sevarius in a  
flash, just as she had stolen Owen Burnett.  
But that would have to wait. He had a meeting with the Emir to  
finalize plans for the Egyptian project, had to make the arrangements for  
Vogel's trip to South America, and there was the matter of his own  
upcoming vacation in Prague to think of, this Cauldron of Life to  
research ...  
  
* *  
  
"Is it on all the channels?" Lex groaned.  
"Well, they're appearing live at Madison Square Garden,  
tonight," Broadway said around a mouthful of bagel.  
"Who'd want to go see that?" Brooklyn said snidely. "The Pack is  
a pretty dumb show, even for kids."  
"Shep!" a chorus of kids' voices chanted as the Pack's noble  
leader appeared on the screen, followed by shots of his team in quick  
succession. "Poodle! Bulldog! Peke! Dane-a!" Then the announcer came  
on, extolling the virtues of the cartoon anthropomorphic canines as they  
went up against the evil cat-warriors.  
"Turn it off!" Brooklyn made to snatch the remote from Lex. "Or  
find something else. Golf. Love Boat reruns. _Anything_ but this!"  
  
* *  
  
"So, partner," Matt Bluestone ventured. "You seeing anybody?"  
"No, why?" Elisa didn't take her eyes from the road.  
"Just curious. Hey, you want to grab a cup of coffee? My treat."  
She grinned. "Sounds like a plan ... partner!"  
"And maybe dinner later?"  
"Don't push it, Matt."  
"Can't blame a guy for trying," he shrugged.  
Elisa drove in silence for a while, then glanced at him. "How  
about Friday? I know a great Thai place ... but you've got to promise to  
be quiet about the Illuminati."  
"It's a done deal!"  
  
* *  
  
**1995 A.D.  
Africa  
  
** "... the spider went hungry!" Diane Maza concluded, and the  
children laughed and clapped.  
As one of their elders herded them off to their supper, she  
approached Fara Maku and flushed with pride as he congratulated her on  
her skillful rendition of the tale of the Panther Queen. They walked  
together toward the cage where the ceremonial panther was imprisoned.  
He was telling her how the rite would go, when a warning shot  
cracked. Rough men emerged from the jungle, led by a woman with  
murder in her eyes.  
"Te'a!" Fara cried.  
He tried to reason with her as she aimed at the caged panther, but  
she was beyond reason. Her first shot took the animal in the flank, driving  
it berserk with fear and fury. It attacked the bars, which began to splinter.  
Her second shot went wild as Fara grappled with her, but then the rough  
men pulled him away and the third shot stilled the panther's heard.  
Diane stood numbstruck and horrified, and despite the story she'd  
just finished telling, completely unprepared for what happened next. Fara,  
in the grip of his captors, suddenly writhed and tore free, dropping to all  
fours as black fur sprouted on his skin.  
The men reeled back, but Te'a went livid with rage. "It was  
you!" She raised the rifle, aimed it at Fara.  
Without a thought for her own safety, Diane slammed her  
shoulder into the younger woman and bowled her over. She grabbed for  
the gun.  
Te'a twisted beneath her, screaming in denial as her body began  
to contort. Diane found herself looking into the deadly golden gaze of a  
panther.  
She gasped and rolled off, and Te'a paused only long enough to  
bare her fangs in a vicious snarl before leaping at Fara.  
The other poachers had recovered enough to point their guns at  
both panthers. Diane shouted at them to stop, but they fired. A bullet dug  
into the earth beside Fara's paw, a second grazed Te'a. At the shots, both  
panthers left off their struggle and bolted for the cover of the jungle.  
"Come on!" one of the men said to his companion, and they  
charged after.  
"Fara Maku!" Diane called. "Come back!" Then she, too, dashed  
into the jungle. It was crazy, chasing panthers at night, but someone had  
to do something. After thirty years of being wife to a cop and mother to  
two cops, the protective impulse must have rubbed off onto her.  
She had no trouble following the trail of the poachers, who were  
old hands at tracking wounded prey. Te'a, once their leader, now filled  
that role.  
To her intense shock, the trail led to the gates of a vine-covered,  
abandoned city. A city she had never believed to be real. The Spider-  
Gates!  
At the heart of the city, after nearly falling into a pit trap that was  
choked with webs and acrawl with spiders -- it would have to be spiders;  
what else should she have expected? -- she found the poachers caught in  
sticky, thick strands. They had blundered into a giant web and were  
trapped, helpless.  
Fara Maku, human now, stood at the foot of a web cable as big  
around as a man's leg. Te'a crouched before him, only her vertically-split  
pupils and golden irises still showing as proof of her transformation. Now  
Diane noticed the mark on the woman's shoulder, and understood even  
before Fara explained how he had wanted Te'a to stay with him.  
"But who marked you?" she asked.  
"I did, storyteller," chortled a voice right out of a nightmare, and  
the spider lowered itself into view.  
"Anansi!" she gasped. It was true, the old stories were all true!  
The spider gloated over how fat he would grow with five humans  
to hunt for him, and Diane realized with cold certainty that she would  
never see her home again.  
  
* *  
  
**Avalon  
  
** "Avalon welcomes its children," Oberon said, looking about in  
satisfaction as he and Titania materialized in a golden-blue shimmer. "And  
how has my isle fared?"  
Three shapes faded into view, taking on female forms of identical  
beauty, differing only in the hues of their hair.  
"Undisturbed, my lord," Selene, the black-haired enchantress,  
replied.  
"Save for the Sleeping King," Phoebe added.  
"Who yet rests in his hollow hill," Luna finished.  
"Oh, yes, the Sleeping King." Oberon waved nonchalantly. "Let  
him be. He'll not disturb our homecoming. It is a pleasure to have you at  
my side again, sweet Titania."  
"Yes, my lord," that lady said graciously.  
"Would that you returned to this fair isle as my wife, as well as  
my queen," he hinted, kissing her hand.  
She gave him an arch look, beneath which was a playful twinkle.  
"My lord has yet to earn that privilege. Should a suitable test present  
itself, we shall see."  
"How I indulge you," he chuckled.  
Titania smiled. "That you do, my lord, that you do."  
"But now," he said, taking her arm, "it is time for the  
Gathering."  
  
* *  
  
**The End.  
  
**Author's Note, final:  
This story could have gone on forever! I realized as I began it just  
how much that one decision changed everything. How tied together it all  
was.  
No Goliath meant no Xanatos going back in time to become a  
"self-made man;" no Xanatos to intervene meant the Archmage would get  
the gate; if the Archmage had the gate, Demona wouldn't have it to give  
part to Goliath in the first place ... damn, that's tidy!  
But it went on. If the Archmage had the gate, and died, he  
couldn't later get the gate and use it to save himself. So no Weird Sisters,  
no plan to bind MacBeth and Demona. No Demona, anyway, because she  
stayed with Goliath.  
Nobody ever trespassed on Avalon, so Arthur never awoke. No  
world tour. No Alexander, for Oberon to come and fetch. And so on.  
_Everything_ was different. Not to mention what it did to all _my  
_characters!  
I knew I could never write it all, and didn't really want to. That's  
why the ending collection of epilogues sort of peter out. There was too  
much, and I'm sure others will be able to imagine what else would have  
changed, thinking of things that I didn't.  
If just one person, reading this, slaps his/her forehead and  
exclaims, "Of course!" with the same chill of implication that I felt a  
hundred times while writing it, I will have done what I set out to do.   
  



End file.
